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I can wiggle my ears. It's not a skill I ever thought I'd use, but you never know when special abilities can be useful in life.

When I was about to become a grandmother for the first time, it occurred to me that ear wiggling might be a unique entertainment for my grandchild some rainy day.

As I awaited the miracle of birth that would soon take place, I thought about the tiny being, still only a few inches in length. I knew that genes would determine the color of the child's hair and eyes as well as many other traits, but external influences would also be responsible for the child's ultimate development. It was exciting to think that I, as a grandmother, could be an important influence on the child.

What kind of grandmother would I be? I didn't knit or bake. The mothering skills I once possessed had been forgotten long before. For more than 20 years, I had not bathed or diapered a baby. My world rarely contained a child. I seldom had occasions to speak with children. How would I establish rapport with a child?

Would I love this child unconditionally? I wanted to, but could I do it? Would I love him more if his hair were red like mine? Or if she were fonder of music and books than the siblings that came after her, would I love her most because she loved what I love?

I remembered my own grandparents and the differences in the love each gave. My maternal grandparents adored me and I had the pleasure of being the favorite among many. Was it because I was the child of the only daughter among many sons? Was it because I was at their home more than any of the other grandchildren? Or was there something about me that they liked especially -- something that touched their hearts?

My paternal grandparents loved me but I was clearly not their favorite. The grandson who achieved the coveted status with this grandfather was unique in his ambition and achievements, and also spent more time in that house than any of the other grandchildren. This grandmother, too, had her favorite -- a girl with remarkable physical and emotional likeness to herself.

Had my grandparents been aware of the favoritism shown? If so, had they cared about it? Had they tried to hide preferences?

One of my grandparents lived past age 96 in a nursing home. Her dresser and one wall of her room were covered with photos of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren that numbered about 50. Who was her favorite then? The one who came to visit! The preferences had faded away. In her mind, they were all melded into one glorious group about whom she could still tell tales of mischief and mayhem.

When I look back upon the grandparent relationships I had, what do I remember best? Not which grandparent gave the best gifts, although an engraved locket given to me when I entered kindergarten still reminds me of the value those grandparents placed on education. It is the memories of good times, of holidays and visits, of events shared that stand out. Memories of good cooking and delicious smells, of old houses and familiar rooms, are clearly etched in my mind.

I recall a grandmother satisfying my wish for forbidden coffee by slightly discoloring my cup of milk with a teaspoon or two of real coffee -- a grandmother pretending not to understand English so that I would speak to her in Yiddish. I think of small gifts tucked away in a cupboard to await my arrival -- a hair ribbon, an embroidered handkerchief, or a package of hard candy.

I remember my grandfather's tailor shop and the spools of colored thread on the sewing machine. My grandmother did the alterations. She taught me how to make an invisible hem by hand, kindling an interest in needlework that persists to this day.

The flowering of springtime often brings to mind my grandparents' apple and pear trees and the grape arbor in a yard with a swing and a rocker. I recall a grandmother supervising the tearing of newspapers at the end of "The War" to make confetti to throw on the street at a block party. I look back upon wonderful holiday gatherings where grandmothers and grandfathers presided over large and extravagantly set dining tables. I remember watching my grandmother do her waist-length grey hair into an intricate knot.

There is the memory of a freckled grandfather pointing to a spot on his cheek that he wanted me to anoint with a kiss. I remember the smell of his pipe tobacco.

Did I have a favorite grandparent? Strangely, no. I loved them all, for being with them was always wonderful. I simply wanted their approval -- wanted them to love me -- and they did, each in his or her own way.

I have been enriched by their presence in my life. There was no formula for being a grandparent in those days and, indeed, there is none today. It simply seems to be something like giving the best of what you are -- whatever that may be -- and love. And, if all else failed, I could always wiggle my ears. And I did!

Toby Rosenstrauch is an award-winning columnist living in Boynton Beach, Fla.