I've got a bad case of Granny Envy, since mine has been gone for twenty years. My neighbor's almost 90-year-old granny is visiting over the holidays. Is it wicked that I am glad she is currently snowed in here?

I sit over there for hours, listening to her stories. Granny is a classic feisty Southern Magnolia. She and her brood fuss and feud with both gusto and love. When I remarked that Granny was remarkably lucid, her daughter responded, "You mean loose-lipped?"

Sometimes I think I missed out by never living in the South. The closest I came was Virginia, which didn't really count because it was the D.C. metro area, eliminating any sense of sharp gentility. In the South, people don't consider sitting around talking about nothing a waste of time, especially when sipping a glass of sweet tea or whiskey.

My maternal grandmother died in 1985. She was the genuine article, too, but the Midwestern version, all soft lap and understatement. The only time she came close to raising her voice at me was when I was three, teetering on one foot on the back of her davenport.

Whenever anyone in the extended family had troubles, they came to my grandmother. During a divorce or hospitalization, Grandma took anybody's kids in so they wouldn't witness the carnage. She never asked questions, figuring people would tell her what they wanted her to know. She was the kind who never expressed a need for love, attention, or gratitude and therefore, everybody loved her best.

Oh, she had her wild side. As soon as the dishes were cleared, Grandma pulled out the cards. Her mother forbade card-playing when she was a child. Great-grandma was a harsh, God-fearing Finn who believed spades, hearts, rummy, and poker exemplified the Devil's usage of idle hands. Enjoying the taste of forbidden fruit, Grandma and her siblings spent every spare moment shuffling the deck in the attic.

My grandmother went to her grave believing she caused one of her sister's death from the typhoid at seven years old. Grandma confessed to me one day that they were walking down a long country road when her thirsty sister drank from a puddle. My grandmother believed she should have stopped her, being older and knowing better.

Now I could have reassured her that it was more likely something in their icebox. With limited knowledge of food handling and water sanitation, one in a thousand contracted typhoid in early twentieth century U.S. While any widespread illness or untimely death is tragic, the recent Taco Bell and tainted spinach issues pale in comparison.

My surrogate Granny, despite her stories, maintains she has secrets she will never tell, believing their content will send her to hell. I expressed my opinion that not many grannies belong there. Especially one that still has the sense of humor to nickname her walker "Satan."