"Gramma!"

She stands there silently, her amber eyes as bright and clear as the first day I saw her. Her lips still curve in a sweet innocent smile. Her hair is still a deep black, with no touch of grey.

She is an Indian doll, standing about ten inches tall. Oh, I know, it's not politically correct to call her an Indian. I should call her a Native American. But when I was five, and we bought her as a souvenir of our trip from Washington state to Michigan, she was an Indian. Her leather dress is dried out and cracked in places, the beading loose but intact. She's missing a finger on one hand, but to me she's perfect.

I remember nothing of that trip. I'm not even sure if we actually were coming from Washington. I do know that we had just returned from several years in Japan, and were heading to my grandmother's house in Michigan. I remember being excited to show my grandmother my doll, and my own mother's cautionary warning. She gently told me that my grandmother was old, and she had lots of grandchildren, and I shouldn't be too disappointed if Gramma wasn't as enamored of the doll as I was. Of course, Mom used words a five year old could understand. I have no memory of what actually happened after I ran up the steps of Gramma's house. I have very few real memories of my Gramma Racine, and it's not just because she's been gone almost 50 years.

Since I grew up in an Army family, I didn't get to spend much time with my grandparents. My paternal grandmother died before I was born, my paternal grandfather and step-grandmother lived in the Sacramento area. My maternal grandfather also died before I was born, and my maternal grandmother lived, as I said, in Michigan.

I don't know how my parents felt about being grandparents. Certainly, they loved their grandchildren, and spent as much time and money on them as they could. They seldom said no to babysitting. They taught them how to make fruit leather and how to shoot rubber band guns. But I don't know if being a grandparent was as soul satisfying to them as it is to me.

I have six grandchildren. I've been privileged to be a part of all of their lives from the day they were born. I've rocked them to sleep, read them stories, kissed their boo-boos, watched them learn to walk and talk and run. All too quickly they've gone from sweet-smelling infants wrapped in cozy blankets to tough sweaty little boys playing soccer or hockey, earnest little men with video games, books and stuffed animals. And the girls! Oh, my. Fashionista, dancer, gymnast, artist! Hair like silk, and endless questions. They are such a joy to me, all six of them.

I feel sorry for my grandmother, if indeed she was too overwhelmed by sheer numbers to appreciate what she had. I'll never know for sure, but I hope that my mother felt the same way I feel when I walk up the steps to my grandchildren's house, and ring the bell. I hear little feet pounding across the floor, the door is flung open wide, little arms circle my waist, and sweet sweet voices call out, "Gramma!!!"

I am so lucky.