Oops I did it again …

I told you I was bad at this …. case and point.

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about writing. Seemed like a good time to jump back into this. My dad told me the other day that everyone has a unique way of remembering things and we should write our stories down. My dad isn’t always known for his words of wisdom, but I took that to heart.

I’ve thought about writing a memoir. I don’t think I’ve ever even read a memoir. That might be something I should do first … recommendations welcome …

Anyway – my little family and I just got home from spending the weekend with two of my sisters in the least likely of “vacation” spots imaginable. Omaha, Nebraska. My brother-in-law was curling in a tournament for a place in the Olympic team which made for a perfect excuse to get together even if it was only for a couple days. — Anonymity could be tested here. Curling is a niche sport with a small community … I don’t think my sisters read blogs, and not may people will read this anyway, so what the hell.

I’m not a huge sports fan. My sisters know this. Dispute growing up around curling (and just about every other sport you can think of – another story), I barely knew how curling was scored when we sat down for the first match we watched. Luckily, D is totally into any and all sports and was asking tons of questions trying to figure out the strategy and technique. Meanwhile I’m on Wikipedia reading about the history of the sport because apparently I hate fun.

I always come away with mixed emotions after seeing my sisters. I was telling a friend at work about this today. I love them and I miss them, but we’re so different, most of the time I’m trying to figure out if they even like me as a person. They certainly don’t know me very well and really I don’t know them. It’s shared experiences and blood that keep us together, and it’s my anxiety and self-centeredness that threatens my ability to continue those relationships.

Since “adulthood,” I have never had a reunion with them that didn’t have me crying for one reason or another. I really wish this wasn’t the case …

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Staturday nights at Grandma’s

A quick memory … 

** Names have been changed to protect the innocent 😉 **

It’s Sunday morning and I’m getting kicked in the face. Irritatingly, this happens every Sunday morning at Grandma’s.

Saturday night, after stopping by for dinner, my sister – Peggy – and I begged and begged to stay with Grandma for the night. We had been playing with our cousins for the last hour and we just weren’t ready to leave! Grandma looked at Grandpa and laughed. We were always welcome to stay, and our parents knew that. 

After they left I never thought about what they did with this kid-free time … My parents probably went to a bar or simply just went home, I don’t know – I didn’t care … I was at Grandma’s and the six of us had big plans for the evening!

My grandparent’s “wreck room” was perfect for fort building. Well all picked out our corners and got to work immediately. Within a few minutes the room was a maze of blankets only we could navigate. 

My corner was always by the back door behind Grandpa’s chair. It was perfect and I imagined living there the rest of my life. I used my favorite crocheted afghan for the roof. It was mostly black – my favorite color – and had pink and  purple flowers in the center of the motifs. When light shown through the holes it reminded me of stained glass. I could have stayed under that blanket forever. 

The next thing I knew it was bath time. We had to go three at a time. Grandma split us up by age. Peggy and I and our only boy cousin – Ryan – got the first round. This was a normal occurrence at Grandma’s. Peggy and I didn’t have brothers, Ryan was the closest we ever got. 

After bathing, all of the girls took turns getting our hair done in pin curls and rollers – just like Grandma. We would fight over who got to help Grandma with her hair. Ultimately she would make us take turns – even Ryan got a turn. 

After we were all did up, we got root beer floats in old Coke glasses. The perfect ending to the night. Grandma made us take down the fort before tucking us into my aunt’s old brass bed. Three pointing one way and three pointing the other. Somehow I always ended up with Ryan’s feet in my face. 

In the morning those are the feet that would wake me up. Just in time for church. Catholic Mass at the little white church was never my favorite part of Saturday nights at Grandma’s, but I think my love of old buildings started there … A story for another time.