Probably the most challenging (and cathartic) review I ever wrote for a book was for Margaret Laurence's The Stone Angel. My experience of my paternal grandmother is so loaded, I still struggle to make peace with her, some 10 years now, after her passing.
When you come to know your grandmother as a full-bodied adult, you may still love her like crab cakes, but you might, just might, know a few things about her that could make you want to throw her old relish dish across the room, too. If, on the other hand, your “Grandma” lived until you were almost 40 years old, and you spent 12 consecutive summers living with her, you might have a whole different impression of her. If the grandmother died while the grandchild was still young, this is typically something favorable: Ivory soap, rose oil, shortbread cookies, a particular perfume. If “Grandma” is perpetually frozen in time as a “dear” woman who baked batches of cookies by the dozen, I can usually surmise that the grandchild lost her at a relatively young age. I can often tell how old a person's grandmother was when she died, by the grandchild's descriptions of her.
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