My maternal grandmother was poor and lived in the country in an old farm house at the end of a dirt road. Forget about going if there had been too much rain. She had no running water, only a well. She was a good cook, but fried everything she could. She always gave me her love and undivided attention, and I always looked forward to visiting her.
My paternal grandparents were the opposite. They lived in a huge elaborate home, almost a mansion, with a lot of acreage, and peacocks on the property. They had 9 children, all grown when I came along. My grandfather would hold me once in awhile and tickle me sometimes, but I hated being near him. He smelled like cigar smoke. My grandmother was good enough to me, but it seemed dutiful. The house was cold and uninviting. A maid did the cooking, and meals were served in a huge dining room at a table that would seat 20 or more, even though there may be only 2 of us eating at that time. I remember feeling overwhelmed by it all and just wanted to go back home.