Why do I put off writing certain posts? (Is that even what this is called? My head hurts; thinking is hard.) In late July, we got together with some o' the family for a Grandma Memorial Bash, and the whole time I was living it, I was thinking of how I needed to write it all down so I wouldn't forget. Waiting until I have a headache three weeks later was probably not my best idea.
Eric is also playing Angry Chickens (wait... Angry Birds) on Abby's iPod and it's making an awful racket. Although I sort of like the sound effects when the chickens (wait... birds) hit the pigs.
Anyway.
So my Grandma died three years ago, and we've sort of gotten into this tradition of... not celebrating, but getting together and having a meal and catching up and visiting my grandparents' graves and then having ice cream. At Gram's house. Since my cousin Seth bought Gram's house and is trying to make it his (and wow, he's done a great job so far... it looks awesome, especially since he took down the scary Crucified Jesus in the living room), there's a bit of "going through Gram's things" as well. Which has yielded some awesome stuff for me: A funky bracelet that I can't imagine Gram actually wearing, although others say it's totally something she's have worn (that's perspective for you) that I picked out last year (along with some embroidered pillow cases et al, but I wear the bracelet a lot more than I look at the pillowcases), and her entire set of China this year (I had no idea Gram HAD China. Apparently she got it while working at Montgomery Wards in the '70s. AWESOME).
Maybe I should consider using paragraphs?
We had a lovely time with everyone. The place was packed--it was the largest group we've had yet. Now that I'm 39 and wise and mature, I appreciate being able to spend time with my cousins (well, and aunts and uncles and brother). I loaded up numbers into my phone with vague plans to randomly call everyone to check in here and there. It could happen.
AND THEN.
My grandparents lived next to one of those little neighborhood corner stores that mostly just sold beer, milk and candy bars. And jojos. Not that we ever ate them, just that they were there. My grandpa was, shall we say, a cranky sort of man who would PAY US QUARTERS to get us out of the house. Naturally we would walk to the store, which was MILES away from the house, and stock up on candy cigarettes, jawbreakers, and red hots. Unless you were my brothers, in which case you bought sports cards with the hard piece of bubble gum inside. And ended up with lots of rookie cards that paid for that term in college or whatevs. Not that I'm regretting my jawbreakers, because they were delish.
The cousins, as I am going to refer to us because we are not "the adults," no matter how old we are now, decided we needed to take a walk to the store, for old time's sake. It was an amazingly short walk. I was all, I am sure the store has moved closer, because this walk used to take forever. Once inside, we were a little bummed to see that they'd moved the candy counter to another area, until we saw that they'd filled the spot with wine and lotto tickets. Somehow, that seemed fitting.
I loaded Abby up with my favorites*--well, the favorites I could find: Runts, Jawbreakers, and Atomic Fireballs. I was tempted to get her some Lucky Stripe gum, but Eric was looking at me like I was insane, so I decided to put it back (he's right, of course--that gum never held it's flavor). I spent $1.87, although considering the ambiance, it should have been way more. (Or less, depending.)
As I left the store I spotted the Zotts, well hidden, and I was all, damn! Because I totally would have bought a string of those, too. My girls have needs and are totally worth it.
We walked home, comparing purchases: Laffy Taffy, those colored sugar pouches that you dip a sugar stick into (what the heck are they called? Lick-A-Stick?), Charleston Chew. Everyone was ever so pleased with themselves.
But that might have been the sugar high from the ice cream.
Love you, Gram. Thank you, Seth.
*I'm allergic to artificial colors and flavors, so buying them for myself was out. But Abby was nice enough to let me smell everything, which I keep telling myself is just as good and TOTALLY NORMAL.
I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out what song would be fitting for this particular entry, and have finally settled on Duffy, "Mercy." Just because it was playing A LOT around the time that Grammie died.
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