Today is my grandmother's birthday. She would have been 94. We lost her in 1989, and I miss her every day. My mom and I call each other pretty often--at least once a week--but one of us always calls the other on Nov. 2 and Jan. 29 (the latter was the day my grandmother passed away).

She made no secret of the fact that I was her favorite grandchild, something I was grateful for during the times in my life when I didn't feel like I was anybody's favorite anything. We shared a sweet tooth and frequently gave each other chocolate-covered cherries for Christmas gifts. She would take us to Wyatt's Cafeteria to eat lunch after church on Sunday mornings, and she and I would always get the strawberry shortcake. She knew how to make the best chocolate cake I've ever tasted. When we cleaned out her house after she died, she had five different kinds of barbecue sauce in her fridge (and not much else).

She lived alone for 12 years after my grandfather died of cancer, two miles outside the city limits, a fact that would come back to haunt her on more than one occasion: when a snake got into her house, and later on when she was robbed while she was at church, and still later when her guard dog attacked her. She was a tough lady, a survivor of the Depression who saved rubber bands and scraps of foil, and had a jar of wheat pennies and another jar of Bicentennial quarters. She always made sure I had a slip on when I got dressed for church. My mom says she can still hear my grandmother asking, "Do you have a slip on?" I have a picture, taken around 1959, of my grandparents attending the rodeo in Fort Worth. My grandfather has on a suit and tie and cowboy hat, and my grandmother is properly dressed, complete with hat, gloves, and a pocketbook that matches her shoes.

She had her flaws. She was certain that anyone who didn't go to the Church of Christ was hellbound. When we'd go out on Sunday afternoons or shopping on Saturdays, if we saw black people in a nice car, she'd embarrass us by saying "They must have stolen it." She never completely trusted electricity and wouldn't let me use the vacuum cleaner unless I put shoes on first, sure that I was going to electrocute myself. She refused to use the microwave oven, although she'd get my brother or me to heat up water for her.

My little brother and I would go to her house after school when we were kids, waiting for my schoolteacher mom to get done with her paperwork. We'd go into the "den" and watch cartoons. Both my grandmothers had houses with separate living rooms and dens; the living room was where you entertained company; the den was where the television was. She'd bring us sandwiches and Dr Pepper and Little Debbie oatmeal creme pies.

I remember her house very well, although I haven't been in it in 16 years. I walk it in my dreams: from the kitchen with its pear-printed curtains and decorative plates on the wall from all the states she'd visited; to the overwhelmingly green-and-gold living room (one of the two rooms in the house with air conditioning); to the dark, cool den with his-and-hers rocking Naugahyde recliners. I remember her red rose bushes and pine trees.

She was a little woman: 5'2" or so and maybe 135 lbs at her heaviest. I always wondered why she drove her little Ford Maverick the way she did, until I got my license and drove it. It had no power steering whatsoever and I always admired the way she muscled it around.

When my dad got a camcorder in 1985, she hated that thing. She refused to talk to it and would turn her face away if he tried to engage her. Eventually, she mellowed somewhat and said that if she were stronger, she'd break the camera. 17 years after her death, I still can't bring myself to watch the videotapes with her in them for long; looking at a photo is one thing, but seeing her, hearing her, is all too real.

My other grandmother, no less sweet for her Alzheimer's fog, turned 95 this year, and I expect that I've got this extended mourning to look forward to with her as well, although in many ways the real "her" has been gone for some time. My late grandmother had a massive stroke in late 1988 and passed away three months later, and even then it was a relief to let her go, because what made her who she was had been blasted away.

Love the dear ones in your life. You never know when they will leave you. I miss my darling grandmother every day, and wish I could talk to her just one more time.