@Leah Jet #51 - got your entry late. It would've won had it been submitted earlier. Sorry!

We would sit on a hollowed out log at the halfway point up the hill and eat some nuts and an apple and she would tell me of when her father drove bullock teams over the wild mountain ranges. Grandma was one of 18 children, she told me many stories of her siblings' mischief. There was this one time the twins, 3 years old, were very quiet-too quiet, so grandma went through the house to look and found them both on the front step with their bowls of milk on the bottom step, tea spoons in hand and a huge king brown stretched out with it's head going over to one twin's bowl lapping the milk, then the little girl would tap the snake on the head and say "Get!" and giggle like little girls do and the snake would turn it's head to the other twins' bowl and take a drink until the other twin tapped the snake onthe head and said "Get!" My grandmother was HORRIFIED! But what could she do? The snake played with the girls for 10 minutes going on like this, letting the twins tap it on the head - the snake was enjoying a game with the girls!
The snake just slid away when it had had enough to drink and to my grandmothers amazement the twins seemed to accept the snakes' presence as though it were a pet dog or cat!

I asked her did she kill the snake and she said she sent the boys to 'smoke it out'... (so yeah, I suppose it disappeared after that).
Those twins are still alive and they remember that snake...

Grandma had many, many stories of pioneer life in the bush. From what I can gather it was very wild, not at all fancy - they slept on bags of hulled corn cobs as mattresses because in the Great Depression there WERE no mattresses!

I'd better stop there, I could go on as she did, for hours!

I hope you enjoyed the snake story! xx

I just found out about this book and am looking forward to using it for my next mother/daughter event.

She was an amazing cook and a great crafter. I spent most of my afternoons with her when I was very small and I was convienced I could do anything she could do! Many of my best memories were standing on a stool in her kitchen covered in flour and sugar making cookies or her famous coconut cream cakes.

The funniest memory I have was one week my parents went out of town and I said the entire week with her. Both of us were midly allergic to strawberries (rash/itching/ect) but both LOVED strawberries. So we decided since the strawberries were ripe in her strawberry patch that we would go out and pick as many as we could and make anything and everything strawberry related; Strawberry jam, cake, tarts, ect. After we were done we sat down and gorged ourselves silly on strawberry goodness. Needless to say we both broke out in a terrible rash and spent the next two days covered in pink stuff (It alludes me the name of the stuff but the stuff you put on itchy spots). To this day I am cured of all my strawberry allergies, though I do not recommend trying this remedy at home!

I miss her horribly.

We also look for the very first spring flowers that push up through the brown leaves of the previous fall and the melting snow. The flowers are so small one would never see them, but once we see one suddenly we see them everywhere. They are hepatica, and their colors are pink, purple and white, but the flowers are no bigger than my thumb nail and sit only an inch or two off the ground.

I hope that someday our daughter will be able to bring her children to our special place and show them what the wonderful and intricate parts of nature that we discovered together in the northwoods of Minnesota.

As a father, I take very seriously my obligation to help my daughter realize that she should never limit her aspirations. She is in that rare place where her dreams about her own potential are clear and unconstrained. Among other things we have spent time hammering nails; fixing a faucet; creating a board game; watching a partial lunar eclipse; collecting morning dew; learning to play (or make a tremendous amount of noise with) the drums and electric guitar; making baking soda rockets; making paper; writing and filming a movie; and learning to throw a frisbee. During each of these events, my daughter invariable intones, "Daddy, I could never do that by myself before!" This expression of sincere amazement and exhilaration always makes me dizzy with love.

So I am unable to identify one memory as the most remarkable. It is instead those recurrent experiences of watching my daughter identify more things that she can do, explore, know, or achieve. It is those recurrent experiences of knowing that I had a hand in making her growing world of opportunity and amazement just a little bit bigger.

When I was born, Mom was currently under treatment for what was called "nerve problems" - now schitzophrenia. She was taking Lithium and Phenyl Barbitol. Dad worked during the day and I spent my days with Mom before I was old enough to go to school. I became a Daddy's Girl and ran around the woods in our backyard during the day. Mom was always so drugged out and stared at the walls and talked to things around the house. She didn't always seem to know I was there, but I was young and I didn't know that not all Mom's are like mine.

The years went by and I found myself in 9th grade and mom turned 50. Dad said she always hated taking her medicines. So, on her birthday, she quit. It took a week or so, but mom came through the stupor. She was easily agitated, but told us stories about her childhood and teen years we never heard before. My brother and I were getting to know our mom. Dad was even surprised and he was happy to be with her again.

She stayed off the drugs and the mania set in. She became increasingly violent towards me (but not my little brother. He was her favorite.) Dad tried to get her back on her meds, but to no avail.

By the time I was in 12th grade, she had been institutionalized several times and on and off her medication. She was finally put on Prozac when I was in college, and she has been using the drug ever since.

We now get along pretty well, and I miss my Mom - the one I only got to know for such a short time before the disease set in again. I know one day I will meet her and she will be well. Till then, i am thankful for those fleeting days of stories and laughter.

I was devastated; my grandmother and I were very close. She used to record stories, birthday wishes and various little tidbits on cassette tapes that she would then mail across the pond to her Canadian grandchild.

My mother knew how upset I was about this, and how much I was missing my grandmother. Now, the thing you need to know about my mother is that she is not a sentimental or overly emotional person. She grew up in the decades following WWII in England, and as such, was pragmatic and stiff-upper-lipped. So it made what she did for me doubly-amazing.

Disappearing into our attic, my mother hauled out her sewing machine, fabric swatches and scissors. She worked for hours at a time, and after a week or so, my mom finally came down the stairs, with something in her arms.

She called me over, and sat me down, explaining "how much my grandmother loved me, and how she would always be there to keep me safe, watch over me, and share in my adventures." And then she pulled from behind her back, a life-sized doll that looked just like my gran; from the sensible english shoes with sturdy buckles, to her curled hair and kind face (all hand embroidered with incredibly intricate detail). She had even had my grandfather send over one of my granmother's dresses-- the one I always remembered her wearing-- and had dressed the doll in it.

As a little girl who had just lost her most favourite and loved grandparent, I was so comforted and happy-- both that I'd have my granny around forever, and that my reserved and cool mother had made me something so amazingly touching.

I still have my grandmother doll, and if I have a daughter, I'll tell her the story of how *her* grandmother gave me such an amazing, lasting present-- both in the doll and in love.

Not being a fan of soaps, this left Mom and I having to cast about for other forms of entertainment. Thankfully, while we may have been dirt-poor, we were never too broke to hit the used-book store. Reading was a favorite pastime (that has still stuck with me!), and we had eleven acres of wilderness as our reading room. Once the chores were done, balmy afternoons would find us both lolling in a random tree like a couple of literate-minded jaguars, noses buried in novels. Mom cultivated in me deep and abiding passion for the written word that has colored every aspect of my life since. To this day, the thought of throwing a book away is almost as perverse to me as throwing my own son onto the garbage.

And almost two decades later, my favorite reading-tree still stands. To this day the bark is still worn down from all those years I shimmied up its trunk, novel crammed into a pocket, and settled in its branches.

--TwoDragons

Now, we try to make up for it with fun trips and getaways that are just mother-daughter bonding time. Usually we have a great time. One such trip, however, did not hold all the joys we intended. we ended up on one of the biggest adventures of our lives.

At the time, I drove a Camaro, and we were in Utah on our mother-daughter trip. We decided that we wanted to see the national parks in Southern Utah, and drove to Mount Zion national park. Since we are not the most athletic of girls, we stuck to the easy hikes (and therefore were done by about 1 in the afternoon). The weather was nice, the park was gorgeous, so we thought "hey, why not go see Bryce canyon, too!" Big mistake.

We hop in my car and begin the 90 minute drive between the two parks. After about an hour, it begins to get cloudy. By the time we reach Bryce, it's snowing (keep in mind, we are in a sports car, 2 inches off the ground with racing tires, in a snowstorm at 7000 feet). We literally walk to the rim of the canyon, take pictures, and leave (the pics? not so great. One row of the rock formations is visible, and that's it. We weren't even dressed for that cold of weather...remember, in Zion it had been warm and sunny)

So we get back in the car and begin to drive to our hotel. However, my mother (ever the efficient one) has decided that we are going to take a different route home. She's plotted a course on a map that seems to be a better choice, because it doesn't require us to backtrack. Plus, it will get us back in time to make our dinner reservation.

I'm a little sketchy about the trip, but since my mother insists that this IS our route home, I agree to it.

The ominous signs start appearing when we make the turn onto A highway that tells us, literally, to turn back and take a different highway. But my mother doesn't believe it. She wishes to press onward.

Ever the dutiful daughter, I follow her instructions.

We drive for about an hour, and see NO other cars on the road. None. And the snow starts falling again.

I inform my mom that I do not feel comfortable driving my sports car with rear wheel drive and balding tires in a snowstorm. She shoos my worries away with a simple "We're going to hit 15 any minute now."

About 10 minutes later, we see a few more warning signs; snow pylons with nylon extensions, signs warning of snow drifts, ski resort signs, etc. Still, not wanting to backtrack, my mother insists we push forward.

Finally, we reach the intersection to the highway that leads to the interstate. I am overjoyed (and my steering wheel squeaks momentary relief from the loosening of my hands)... until I see the eight foot wall of snow in front of us. The highway my mother wants to take has been closed due to "inclimate" weather.
The snow is in full effect, and my tires lose traction when trying to turn around. We proceed to srift (a litle too close for my personal comfort) toward an iron railing.

She informs me that she'd like to turn the opposite way and continue to see where this road will lead us. While it's snowing. and we're in a sports car. With bad tires. and Rear wheel drive. Oh, and have I mentioned that my car is a convertible, and as recently lost it's back window? So it's literally snowing on us in the car.

I put my foot down (on the brake) and insist that we turn back around.

We are able to navigate back to our hotel (3 hours later), and research where we had driven. Apparently, my mother wanted to take us to yet another national park in Utah... one that is a 4,000 foot canyon whose rims lie at over 10,000 feet.
In a snow storm
In a Camaro
with bad tires
and no back window.
Oh, and can you guess where that 4,000 foot drop starts? Right at that railing we almost drifted into.
She contemplates our findings, then turns to me and states "hmm... well, maybe I'm not the best navigator. But at least we'll be able to laugh about this, right?"

Right, mom... right.

So, while I may not have had multiple "girl" adventures growing up, my mom and her fastidious ways make up for those losses sevenfold in the present.

And I love her all the more for it.

I was six or seven years old in Grandma's kitchen. I remember it being a dimly lit area with a fake brick floor. For such an exciting place, it was rather dark. I had always thought of the kitchen as off limits to anyone but Grandma. Her business took place there, and it was no one else's business to really be in there while she was at work. Knowing that we were going to bake together was thrilling, at the very least for having access to this sacred place and all of its countless wonders...utensils! There was so much to play with and discover! Metal spoons, wooden spoons, spatulas, sifters, measuring spoons, wire wisks, graters, wax paper (which I always thought was the coolest) - opening up a kitchen drawer was an electrifying experience!

On this day, I remember there being flour all over the counter for when she would roll out the dough. I remember standing on a foot stool, leaning over the counter beside Grandma, and watching her as she baked.
These memories always make me feel good, but what I really smile about when I think about it is how she would talk me through every step of the recipe. Being a little girl, she would sing song all of the instructions and exaggerate her words. "Now we need threeeeeeeee teaspoons of lemon juice. I want you to slooooooooo...ly measure 3 teaspoons of lemon juice using these measuring spoons.... Attagirl! ....Make sure to really roooooo......ll out that dough, Ali. There ya go! Very nice!"

I loved my Grandma for making me her little helper. It made me feel important and big, not just for the fact that I was doing some of the work, but that I was doing this work with Grandma - in her kitchen. That was a big deal for a me! I had assumed a position in Grandma's Kitchen, and I was so proud! It was what made my days at Grandma's house.

The last time I made Grandma's Recipe with Grandma was about 7 or 8 years ago. She passed away last December, and the years before that she was suffering with dementia. Early on, when the dementia quietly began to creep in, my mother and I would discuss getting the recipe written down on paper. Obviously, Grandma had it in her head, and no one knew it but her. Fortunately, we did write it down with her before it was too late. I haven't made it on my own yet - why, I don't know. But I think that now after writing this entry, I'll give it go. And I'll be thinking of Grandma guiding me and singsonging each step the whole way through.

it looks like a really great book.

My sister and I and our two best girlfriends were very much the adventurers growing up in a small town in Western Australia, so I'm looking forward to reading the forts bit, as we were cubby maniacs in some acres of bushland by our house. The most memorable thing we did was ride our mountain bikes through tracks in the bush, and down a slope (which took some courage, it was a big slope) into the carpark of a medical centre, during closing hours of course. Most of the time we would all make it down the bottom intact and celebrate, but there would be times where someone would hit a rock halfway down, and they would slide to the bottom sans bike with gravel in the knees, bawling. We would all gather round and try to soothe and comfort as best we could until the howling stopped, so that no-one would come running, see what we were up to and tell us off.