was still a month away; we hadn’t even begun shopping. We had nothing to give in return. That would never go over well.
Grandma pulled a large scrapbook from each bag and handed one to each of us. The second I opened mine, I was overcome with a surge of emotions. Pictures from the day I was born, my father holding me. He looked so handsome and happy. The tears came pouring out.
I traced my fingers over the images of my father. I missed him. Like missing eyes, I could live without him, but I did so impaired. Limericks he wrote on small pieces of paper were interspersed on the pages. I kept turning the pages, taking my time to examine each picture and remember each detail, and how happy we were all together. I read every caption. And commented on every wonderful piece she added to the book.
So engrossed in my beautiful gift, I didn’t pay attention to what was in my mother’s book. Hers recaptured their years together, from their early dating until death did they part.
My grandparents sat beaming at our reaction, commenting on specific pictures or items. My grandfather went into a dissertation on how his life hadn’t been the same since Grandma started working on the scrapbooks, because they were her top priority. Grandma giggled, like a young girl.
This was the most wonderful evening we shared since my father died, if not ever. I couldn’t help thinking how perfect this night felt, like it was straight out of a holiday movie. Neither my mother nor I anticipated the overabundance of love and warmth that filled our house and hearts this wonderful Thanksgiving.
Nine
Grandma wanted to have a nice brunch Friday. She cooked all morning, making waffles and pancakes, using fresh berries to make jam toppings. The scent of bacon crisping wafted through the house, waking me. I thought this must be how people are woken at those quaint, little bed and breakfast type places.
We were all tired from the emotional overhaul the previous evening. And took our time gathering together around the table and eating the scrumptious meal Grandma prepared. It was wonderful having her with us. I wished she could stay forever.
Both grandparents told stories about my father as a young boy. I enjoyed listening to these fresh antics, very different from my own memories of him, or Mom’s that I’d heard a million times. Hearing the trouble he got into as a teenager, breaking widows with baseballs for example, made me feel a new connection with him, like adding a link to a chain. With the new knowledge of how often he broke things in the house, I wondered if he’d been awkward and clumsy like me.
After we cleared the kitchen table, cleaned and put away the dishes, we sat around and played cards. Grandpa dealt and won almost every hand of Rummy, Poker, and Twenty-one that we played.
Grandma accused him of cheating, and they went on to bicker in the fun-loving manner that defined them as a couple. I looked between them and found it amazing, after all these years, I could still see the love and admiration they had for each other in their eyes. As a young child I didn’t understand their constant quarreling. I thought they hated each other.
Maria came over later in the afternoon and joined in the fun. I showed her the amazing scrapbook my grandmother made while Mom and Grandma sat down to share a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Claiming to miss the hustle and bustle of the city, Grandpa went for a walk.
Maria and I decided to play a board game. I went to ask my grandmother to join in, but paused just outside the door jamb. Mom stood by the sink, her hands covering her face, her shoulders slumped. Grandma stood next to my mother, her hands on Mom’s shoulders, and I could tell by the intense look on Grandma’s face, she was speaking in her tough, determined manner.
I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I knew Grandma was being kind, rubbing Mom’s back, making assurances. I backed up, figuring the conversation had to do with my father
Grandma pulled a large scrapbook from each bag and handed one to each of us. The second I opened mine, I was overcome with a surge of emotions. Pictures from the day I was born, my father holding me. He looked so handsome and happy. The tears came pouring out.
I traced my fingers over the images of my father. I missed him. Like missing eyes, I could live without him, but I did so impaired. Limericks he wrote on small pieces of paper were interspersed on the pages. I kept turning the pages, taking my time to examine each picture and remember each detail, and how happy we were all together. I read every caption. And commented on every wonderful piece she added to the book.
So engrossed in my beautiful gift, I didn’t pay attention to what was in my mother’s book. Hers recaptured their years together, from their early dating until death did they part.
My grandparents sat beaming at our reaction, commenting on specific pictures or items. My grandfather went into a dissertation on how his life hadn’t been the same since Grandma started working on the scrapbooks, because they were her top priority. Grandma giggled, like a young girl.
This was the most wonderful evening we shared since my father died, if not ever. I couldn’t help thinking how perfect this night felt, like it was straight out of a holiday movie. Neither my mother nor I anticipated the overabundance of love and warmth that filled our house and hearts this wonderful Thanksgiving.
Nine
Grandma wanted to have a nice brunch Friday. She cooked all morning, making waffles and pancakes, using fresh berries to make jam toppings. The scent of bacon crisping wafted through the house, waking me. I thought this must be how people are woken at those quaint, little bed and breakfast type places.
We were all tired from the emotional overhaul the previous evening. And took our time gathering together around the table and eating the scrumptious meal Grandma prepared. It was wonderful having her with us. I wished she could stay forever.
Both grandparents told stories about my father as a young boy. I enjoyed listening to these fresh antics, very different from my own memories of him, or Mom’s that I’d heard a million times. Hearing the trouble he got into as a teenager, breaking widows with baseballs for example, made me feel a new connection with him, like adding a link to a chain. With the new knowledge of how often he broke things in the house, I wondered if he’d been awkward and clumsy like me.
After we cleared the kitchen table, cleaned and put away the dishes, we sat around and played cards. Grandpa dealt and won almost every hand of Rummy, Poker, and Twenty-one that we played.
Grandma accused him of cheating, and they went on to bicker in the fun-loving manner that defined them as a couple. I looked between them and found it amazing, after all these years, I could still see the love and admiration they had for each other in their eyes. As a young child I didn’t understand their constant quarreling. I thought they hated each other.
Maria came over later in the afternoon and joined in the fun. I showed her the amazing scrapbook my grandmother made while Mom and Grandma sat down to share a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Claiming to miss the hustle and bustle of the city, Grandpa went for a walk.
Maria and I decided to play a board game. I went to ask my grandmother to join in, but paused just outside the door jamb. Mom stood by the sink, her hands covering her face, her shoulders slumped. Grandma stood next to my mother, her hands on Mom’s shoulders, and I could tell by the intense look on Grandma’s face, she was speaking in her tough, determined manner.
I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I knew Grandma was being kind, rubbing Mom’s back, making assurances. I backed up, figuring the conversation had to do with my father
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