Meine Kleine Oma.

One afternoon, about 20 years ago, I took my Grandma out for a Sunday drive. We took her Monte Carlo up Little Cottonwood Canyon to see if the leaves had started to change. There were a few smatterings of reds, oranges and neon pinks in the scrub oak. The aspens were still holding out, not quite ready to let go of summer.

On the way back down the canyon, I noticed that Oktoberfest was going on at Snowbird Resort. I’d never been, neither had Grandma. I asked if she’d like to take a peek. She did so I turned into the parking lot. We parked the car and started what turned out to be a longer than expected walk to the festival. It was slightly uphill and we were both  getting a bit winded. Grandma stopped to lean against the trunk of a car to catch her breath. I asked her if I should go back and get the car to take her the rest of the way. She smiled and shook her head saying “I’ll be fine.” She hiked the rest of the way in her usual bootstraps fashion.

Once we got there, we took a look at the mass of people, the bright white tents and colored flags. The tram was heading cloudward as we jostled our way to the food stands. We loaded our plates with bratwurst, German potato salad, rotkohl and sauerkraut. I opted not to grab a stein of cold beer even though I desperately needed it after our long hike. We got lemonade instead.

We found a spot at the tables and had our lunch. It was far too much for Grandma to eat, but she did her best, making sure to at least have “just a little taste” of each.

Arthur Brogli and his Bavarian band was playing on stage trying their best to be heard above the crowd. The yodelers were clad in lederhosen and backed by an accordion, clarinet and the oom-pah of a tuba. The music echoed off the green and rocky hillside. I halfway expected the Von Trapps to come tromping over Hidden Peak. Grandma’s feet tapped a bit and she clapped sweetly at the end of each song clutching her purse as she always did in the crook of her elbow. 

When the band was finished they announced that cassettes were available for purchase. “Oh, let’s get one. That was really nice,” Grandma said, and we made a beeline for the merchandise table. The woman taking the money said that Arthur Brogli himself would autograph it for her so we stood in another line. When we got to him, you’d think she was meeting Cary Grant. Her eyes twinkled and her smile beamed as he scribbled away. She said a polite thank you and shook his hand.

We headed home back down the canyon with Grandma gently holding on to the cassette. “...and he autographed it for me!” she said on more than one occasion on the ride home.

A couple of times when I stopped by her house for a visit, she had the tape playing on her little boom box as she puttered in the kitchen or ran a dust rag around the living room. She just loved it. She loved it so much, in fact, that it earned a place of honor for all of her remaining years—proudly propped up on the top of her piano right next to the leggy philodendron, the envelopes of family photos, and her naked lady rain lamp—the one that made the grandkids giggle.

Meine kleine oma. A little old lady who.