She was 71, and she lived alone in the cluttered attic of an old, two-story frame building with her easel; her paints; her brushes; and sometimes, me.

When neighbors spoke of my grandmother, they said, "A nice woman." Then, frowning and in whispers, they added, "But kinda funny." And in the late forties, to the people who lived in our small, unsophisticated town, there was something indeed "kinda funny" about an old lady who sat alone in an attic room and painted pictures. At first glance, she was not unlike a million other grandmothers of her time: the same iron-gray hair drawn back in a bun, steel-rimmed glasses; a dark, high-buttoned dress with long sleeves and detachable lace collar; and a cameo brooch clasped modestly at her throat. But there was the end of similarity. Granny, a tall, angular-boned parcel of nervous energy, was not the average storybook grandmother.

Everyday Granny lost a prized possession. It might be a valued brush, a particular tube of paint, or a piece of canvas. And while I stood on the sidelines, she would tear through her private disaster area, sending papers, books, talcum-coated hairpins, an unmated stocking, and her pink garters helter skelter - all the while looking remarkably like an enraged bird.

Almost always she would find what she was looking for, but occasionally I would spy the object of her frenzied search. "Here it is Granny!" I'd say, proud of my Sherlock Holmes ' tendencies. She would smile sheepishly, relief and gratitude flooding her face.

"Now, wasn't that foolish of me to get so upset," she would apologize. "I'm just a silly old woman, Dear. Don't pay me any mind." Then, calm and serene once more, with the canvas arranged on the easel, she would begin the gentle strokes of her brush.

I often stood at the small, rickety table beside her, a piece of bristo board and a brush in front of me. I was even permitted to use the valued paints (which she could barely afford for her own work) so that I could play artist.