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Memories of My Grandfather

Somehow, the memories I have of my grandfather right now are not my own.

He passed away September 19, the end of the summer, following my grandmother, who died at the beginning of the summer. The funeral was a few days later.

While my family spoke of their memories of him, I found that I only remembered those things because they said them. Oh! I thought when my dad read about Mighty Casey at the bat. I can hear him saying “No joy in Mudville” now.

I’d forgotten that! I pondered when my brother stood to say that Grandfather lost all hope for his team when they fell behind by a run in the fifth inning. “That’ll do it,” he’d say.

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A Master Artist

It was a bustling morning at the Art Gallery. Several people stopped in for the Photography Show. Children exclaimed over painted scenes of bridges they had traversed in the park. One woman purchased a magnet, and when the oversized Casio calculator displayed “1” three times when checking what 10% off $6 would be, I finally decided it was broken and used paper (for those who say this is easy math–this is true; but when I am faced with a cash register and a paying customer, my mind forgets everything I learned in fifth grade, and mental gymnastics to properly operate the cash register ensue).

In the relative quiet of the afternoon (the “oldies” radio station still plays), I am writing. They say bloggers aren’t supposed to pull attention toward how long it’s been since they last wrote something, but I’m going to break that rule for today.