“Heidi, my wee love! I was just thinking about you,” she’d sing out in her Irish lilt as I walked through her front door. Taking my face in her hands she’d kiss my cheeks and lips and forehead.
“Come sit and tell me about your day,” she’d say as she set the kitchen table with china cups and saucers, the little porcelain milk jug and sugar bowl, and a plate of cookies or Little Debbie treats.
She was 4 ft, 11 inches with bright ginger locks that just brushed her collar. She favored burnt orange lipstick and cinnamon red blush, clip on rhinestone earrings and animal print blouses. She made Florence cake and lemon meringue pies from scratch and always, always had a kettle of tea brewing on the stovetop.