I thought yesterday was going to be a "normal" day (like I EVER have a normal day). Zboy and I went out to the farm for lunch and a little visiting.
Dad took ZBoy to the dump, which brought back memories of riding in the trash wagon behind my cousin Liane's grandfather's tractor. He would go on Saturday mornings to the dump and if we happened to be out there, we went too! It was really fun. Z's experience was a little different. When he got back, I asked how it was. "Stinky," he said and wrinkled his nose.
We had a lovely time. Mom made hamburgers with grilled onions and cheese which were delicious! Even Z ate his up!
After lunch, I washed the dishes and tidied up while Mom went to sit down. Dad was at his computer and Z was with Mom when Dad announced that he was going to call his mother - would I like to talk to her too?
Oh, joy! I feel like a terrible granddaughter... I never seem to get around to writing to her (maybe tonight after I put the kid to bed - DM is working), and I used to call her periodically until my calling plan made it impossible to do cheaply.
She sounds wonderful. Her world has physicallly gotten a little smaller - she recently stopped driving after putting her car through the back of the garage. She gets around on a Rascal now. There are sidewalks all the way down the hill into town and a grocery that carries most everything she needs. My uncle is coming for a visit next week, so perhaps he'll take her up the mountain to the farm for a visit with her brother and his wife at the "old homestead".
But her world inside her house is quite large. She watches telly and listens to the radio and is better informed on the state of the world than I am. She was impressed by Obama's speech to the UN, and thought her own PM Gordon did quite well too.
She misses her dog and asked after mine. I told her that we'd had them DNA tested and she was amazed that such a thing could be done. As a serious dog-lover, she thought this was just marvelous.
I miss her. She only lived here until I was in school. Sometimes she and her husband would take us after school. We painted her bathroom and some days, Grandpa Harry would walk us down the hill to the 7-11 for a Frostie Rootbeer. I have a vivid picture of her in my head, sitting in an adirondack chair at Wakulla Springs, where the water was freezing but felt oh-so-wonderful at the peak of summer, and she and Harry would take us there every now and then for an afternoon of sunburns and goosebumps.
But even after they moved to Canada, then back to Wales, she would write to me. Glorious letters with stories from her past, things that happened when she, Uncle Piers and my dad emmigrated here. I would write to her too, but I don't imagine my letters were nearly as interesting as hers. Our lives got busy and the letters petered out after a while. She was caring for her mother, I was getting married, she took a job at a boarding school, I lived in Oklahoma. The letters still came and were sporadic and I answered them.
But I admit that I haven't written in a while. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I am always so busy. My days end with a blog post before I fall into bed. I offered to print my blog off for her once (she doesn't do computers), but she said no.
But the phone calls are lovely. Her voice makes me smile to myself and brings back childhood memories that were all but forgotten.
I have a Fun Monday to post for tomorrow, but I think after that... I will write to my grandmother. A long, newsy letter with pictures. She'll love it.