by Nan Keltie

Created on: November 04, 2008   Last Updated: April 29, 2010

"Why do you hang clothes outside, Grand-a-Mom?"

Maura chuckled, snapped a wet pillowcase and reached for another clothespin. "So they'll smell like sunshine."

They were quite a pair, the two of them. One was silver-headed, slight of frame and slowing with age; the other had a mass of red curls, emerald-green eyes, a dimpled chin and youthful energy.

"Can I hang my pink socks all by myself?"

Maura smiled down at her great granddaughter. "You know I can't lift you, honey. You're too big!"

That set off another round of questions. Then why did Daddy say she was too little to climb the ladder? Why did Mommy say she was too little to use a vacuum cleaner? And why didn't her Mommy hang clothes outside in the sunshine? And were her pink socks dry yet?

Having little Emma around warmed Maura all over. And that was a good thing, because her old bones often felt cold and brittle. Dr. Earl had advised the use of a walker, but Maura wasn't ready to agree to that yet.

Just last summer her seven grandchildren and two great-grandchildren began taking turns visiting a day or two at a time. While it was good to have them, Maura knew the real reason behind it - her children didn't want her alone at night. They said someone had to keep an eye on her "in case she fell." How they thought a three-year-old cherub like Emma could prevent that, she had no idea.

This week they'd baked cookies together, watered the porch plants and spent lots of time reading story books. Today, Emma had delighted in helping sort the laundry, chattering on about how "Mommy never lets me do this." When it came time to measure out the detergent, Maura handed her the scoop and watched Emma oh-so-slowly tip it enough to let the blue powder slide like sand into the waiting washer.

Why parents didn't train their little ones to help with chores, Maura would never understand. When she was Emma's age, it was her job to gather wood for the fire under her mother's wash pot. She also helped hang clothes when she was so small a tree stump was placed under the line for her to stand on.

Today's children were spoiled. All they had to do was push a button, turn a knob, pour in that new-fangled liquid soap and stuff their clothes in the washer. She clucked her tongue, remembering how some of her grandchildren couldn't manage that simple chore. Instead, they brought dirty laundry home on weekends and expected Mom to do it.

As they started toward the house, Emma danced and chanted in a sing-song voice, "I helped you do

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