Becoming my Grandmother

The other day it struck me that I was doing here was becoming more like my grandmother.  I don't mean speaking in a German accent or spending my spare hours compiling a family history.  But she was always someone without a negative word (hardly ever) for anyone, and a smile on her face and a tut tut at the concerns.  The thing is I'm really not like her, and never thought I could ever be.  I have the hard shell of a city dweller, the edge of intellect that colors how I see and communicate perhaps more than natural grace and warmth.  But I had noticed in the past few days how my reactions and comments were starting to sound a bit like her.  I know it's a good thing, she believed in G_d for sure, escaped the Holocaust, was for the most part happy with how life turned out, and if she was disappointed in my grandfather or discouraged with stuff, she never showed it.    I wouldn't say my transformation is complete, which was brought home when for the third week in a row I decide to light shabbat candles and of course not having any, tea light it is again.  Not to mention that sunset was apparently 4:32 pm, so I was about an hour late and here I am writing while the candles burn.  I would say that I am maybe 10% changed or changing, which may be as far as it goes.  But I could do all right following in her footsteps in other ways.  She was not a great cook, but loved to have virtual strangers over for dinner, young students appreciating a hot meal, the painter, whomever.  She didn't wait for the world to make her life full of friendship, she took the initiative and visited those who were older or sicker even when she was getting pretty old herself.   After my grandfather died, leaving her on her own, there were so many neighbors looking in on her, leaving her the newspaper or a basket of lemons and it was this cordial exchange that led one of them to become suspicious when she didn't come to the door.  She had had a stroke and couldn't move to call for help.  All the goodness she put out there came back, and I felt blessed on my not nearly frequent enough visits to help her with the simple things like taking a shower or eating, all the indignities that she bore with her usual grace and good cheer.  She started to add a small glass of beer to her nightly routine, she had read somewhere that it was good for something, and that it was.  I know she would appreciate what I am trying to do here, she always made me feel like I was a good person even when I wasn't so sure myself.