Frogs on Facebook

www.facebook.com/FIMFormula

ABOUT ME

About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Anyone wanna trade grannies?

I’ve been wanting to write a post-Thanksgiving post for a week now and finally, seven days later, I have the chance.

Must...act...quickly...

At Thanksgiving dinner, I sat down next to my grandmother and I said, “Grandma, this is your ninety-fourth Thanksgiving. Tell me: Out of all 94 years, what sticks out as your happiest holiday? What is your favorite Thanksgiving memory?”

I sat back and smiled thoughtfully. Her white-gray tendrils curled around her glasses. She was sharp as a whip, God bless her. Three marriages and four boyfriends later, she was still a looker.

She thought and she thought. I waited patiently. She thought some more.

I imagined she was mentally sorting through years of warm holiday memories. That could take a while, right? Sifting through 94 years of Thanksgivings?

Heck, she'd spent 36 Thanksgivings with me. Maybe one of those had been her favorite. Maybe she'd regale me with a holiday memory I didn't even remember. Maybe I'd done something endearing, like—

—“I don’t have one,” she said.

“You don't have one favorite happy holiday memory?” I asked.

“Nope. None of them were very happy.”

She shrugged and took a bite of pie.

I shouldn't have been surprised. Just a few months ago she had handed me a pile of letters and cards I’d sent her as a kid and said, “Here, I found some of the junk you sent me and since I’m not going to be around much longer you can have it back."

I swear, when she finally kicks it and is laid to rest the grass is going to curdle and spit her back out.

(Seriously, if you ship me your sweet grandmother for Christmas I'll kick in a cashmere sweater. And some sappy cards signed by yours truly. Sappy, thoughtful, homemade cards. *Sniff, sniff*)

11 comments:

Leanne said...

Now that's funny. And, I'm glad you can take it so well, that would crush some people.... :)

Grace said...

My mother is 1 year older than your grandmother and it seems they share the same attitude - maybe it's true that only the good die young, the mean go on forever...

Pricilla said...

Aaaah, grandmothers. My maternal grandmother was a chainsmoking drunk and my paternal grandmother put that plastic stuff on her furniture.

I'm not sure there are any cuddly ones around but I'm a cuddly Aunt. Will that do?

tarheelmom said...

Wow...that really sucks. I visited my 95 y.o. grandmother on Thanksgiving...she died that night. She was snuggly and cuddly. I hate you miss that, but at least you've got good post material!

Jeri Kleiber said...

This is too funny!!! Grannie stories are the BEST!!!! Thanks for the laugh!!!!

Brandy@YDK said...

i totally get why she wouldn't have one. holidays are a bitch.

tootertotz said...

Ah, hell...things could be worse. She could have thought there were no good holidays AND have been diddling herself beneath the tablecloth. That would've really sucked if she coudln't find anything good about that.

Happy Holiday Whiplash to you! By that I just mean it's started, it's blindingly busy and it'll be over in a flash. Have fun!

Dto3 said...

On the bright side, at least she didn't come up with a warm, fuzzy Holiday memory involving your most hated family member and rub that in your face. She sounds like a peach!

Dto3 said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Malik Family Blog said...

I don't think I could trade if I wanted to. Hate to say it but count your blessings. My grandma died when I was twelve. And just like your grannie did, my mother gave me a box very similiar to yours of all the 'crap' that had at one time belonged to me that I'd given her. Not long later, my mother died - at 59 years old from alcoholic liver failure. Okay, sorry - off my rant. Just count your blessings.

Jeanne said...

My maternal grandmother was wonderful. Widowed during WWII with five kids, she ran a boarding house to feed and clothe them.

My paternal grandmother, on the other hand, was a card-carrying broom rider.

Do you have another one?