For me, the quintessential Bobby story goes something like this: I was in college and had just had one of those typical teenage arguments with my parents. They didn't approve of the way I was spending the money I'd earned and thought my interest in clothes indicated that I might be becoming too materialistic. I was hurt by the accusation and frustrated that they didn't seem willing to listen to what I had to say. I decamped to my grandmother's, where I poured out the whole, sorry story. When I finished, Bobby looked at me with a gentle smile and said, "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." And then she took me shopping.
I should explain that the shopping part was not at all characteristic of my grandmother. Ordinarily, Bobby was a staunch and persistent advocate for family harmony. And she was always scrupulous about deferring to my dad and stepmom's parental authority. But in this particular case, she seemed to sense that, more than anything else, I needed to feel that someone had faith in me — and was willing to back up that faith with action. She was right. In fact, long after my parents and I patched things up, that's what I took from this experience: Bobby understood me.
It had always been that way. For as long as I could remember, I'd felt a special connection with this grandmother, my mom's mom. And when I was ten, and my mother passed on, that connection became even more important to me. Bobby was the one person I never had to explain myself to. She always seemed to know what was in my heart and what kind of response it needed from her — whether a sympathetic hug or a gentle kick in the pants. But Bobby was more than just a surrogate mother to me. She was also something of a spiritual mentor. A longtime practitioner of Christian Science, my grandmother taught me volumes about leading a life devoted to helping others, and doing it with patience, love, and a wry sense of humor. Even after I was all grown up and married, Bobby continued to play a huge role in my life.
