Grannie was a McIntosh like the red, tangy
tart ones I craved every fall.
Small in stature filled with spunk,
fiercely defiant. Her eyes would pierce
straight to your soul tolerating only truth. 

Frugal from the Depression saving
her used teabags in fridge for two
more dips in her flowery China cup.
A master at bridge and slot machines both
competitive to a fault. Her laughter
filled her visits with handmade flannel
nightgowns I cherished each Christmas.

 Visited her at 19 by myself in California
where she loaded her car with lady friends
as we toured Napa valley wineries.
Feeling lightheaded, I gasped,” Grannie
Are you sure you can drive?” Her friends
giggled saying, “We could never ask
Quilla that question!” Grannie glared
in the rearview mirror putting
her pedal to the metal.