A Bus Full of Grandmothers

On a day trip to the coast this summer, I ended up on a tour bus that was, except for me, entirely full of grandmothers from a church group in Pennsylvania. Forty-two of them.

They adopted me within minutes. They offered me snacks continuously: butterscotch candies, homemade cookies, a sandwich, a hard-boiled egg. They wanted to know if I was married. They had suggestions.

At lunch, they insisted I sit with them. At the lighthouse, they made me take their group photo eleven times. On the drive home, they sang hymns and then, unexpectedly, every word of "Sweet Caroline," with the "bah bah bah" parts at full volume.

When we got off the bus, three of them hugged me and one gave me her phone number "in case you need a nice girl to meet my grandson." I've never felt more loved by strangers.