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When I was 10 years old, living in Las Vegas, I trekked through the red-colored rocks in front of my yard, taking a few steps where the rocks turned into green grass. It landed me in a place adjacent to my house.
I knocked on my next-door 68-year-old happily married red-headed neighbor's house, holding my tote bag full of Monster High dolls and my Summer Bridge Activities workbook. It was the start of the morning as Roxy, Pat's short-haired Shih Tzu, wagged her tail sideways.
As my mother reentered the workforce in the travel industry and my father worked his corporate 9-to-5, they needed someone to watch us while they were working.
My biological grandma and relatives lived across the world in France, and there was no family nearby to watch me and my sister Camille. In a casual conversation with my parents, Pat joyfully offered to entertain us during the day. We were only a few footsteps away from her front door. Pat's house became the summer camp that didn't have us shell out thousands of dollars for a few weeks; there were cooler activities that could be done at her house.
Plus, as a shy girl, Pat's presence in her home made me get out of my own shell in a way summer camp couldn't.
As I entered Pat's house daily, she stood above her long glass table with a cardboard trifold to decorate a wreath for football season.
Michaels became her favorite place, and she took us for outings. I bent down to reach the lower shelf to get the black and purple garland, as she could not stoop low. I became her shopping assistant. Her green eyes were animated as she searched for pieces for the wreaths that were to her client's preference. At the store, I'd help her pick up ribbons, banners, and flowers.
The trips also showed how much she cared about me. "If I can't see or hear you and you can't see or hear me, go to the car. I do not know what I would do if something happened to you." I was more than just the kid next door.
Pat shared projects that were kept in her bedroom's dark closet. She showed me photo frames and unraveled pastel-colored construction paper in blue, pink, and purple as she pulled out a series of rectangular movie posters from the 1980s. They weren't just souvenirs that could have been bought in the amusement park. They were collectibles that she curated during her career with Target when she was a customer for Corporate Disney.
I'd sit and watch her hot glue her prized possessions into a photo frame, which she gave to Camille and me; she gave them to someone special.
Pat's granddaughter Ellie came over and said, "Grandma, I'm bored." One doorbell ring later, and Camille and I were there playing tag and hide-n-seek. Pat took the three of us on a trip to the Station Casino Pool. I knew more about Grandma Pat life than her friends; I might not have known about a babysitter or nanny as much as she did.
She showed me who mattered in her life, and I was one of those people. She turned out to be a part of my family — she became my grandma.
Even though my biological grandma was 5,436 miles (8,748 km) away across the Atlantic Ocean, Camille and I were in multiple photos in Pat's hallway. My Grandma Pat stood a hop away. It only took a knock next door to give her a snuggly hug.
Even though I moved away from her a few years ago, the phone calls and 13-minute drives for half-day visits at her home make me still feel like I live next door to my grandma.
