I never aspired to be a grandmother; I wasn’t against it, just never thought much about it. Then, along came my granddaughter, Madison, my first grandchild and I was in love.
Once upon a time, I lived what seemed like an idyllic life. I was one of those people who went through their days thinking things only happened to other people. Oh, it was not without incident; my parents were divorced when I was very young and my grandfather passed away a few years later. My mother was a single, working mother, whose circle of friends were mostly divorced, so I did not feel the stigma of being a child of a broken home. I was shy, but had friends, did my homework, played baseball in the street and had a typical 50s childhood. Then, when I was 19, my father died, having been out of touch for years, and I was devastated. That was a difficult time, but wasn’t enough to deter my belief in the “other people” theory.
The story of my lifelong dream trip to Africa continues: