Christmas Pajamas
Christmas always had a sort of repetition that bordered on reverent tradition. Every trip to Grandma’s on Christmas Day included a box with new pajamas.
Christmas always had a sort of repetition that bordered on reverent tradition. Every trip to Grandma’s on Christmas Day included a box with new pajamas.
Whether I was 7 or 17, Grandma was always there to oversee the greatest of winter traditions; the snow day.
Grandma created an unparalleled familial ambiance on Thanksgiving. She drew up plans and executed them to perfection.
From the bath I begged to see the witch. The witch obliged.
Grandma was the resident contrarian. She must have known, and perhaps feared, that one of her grandchildren would inherit this trait. One day I took a swing at the champ.
Grandma’s cookies are crummy and sweet, but lactose is a dangerous addition to the treat.
Grandma loses a game, and rather than bite her lip, she opens her mouth and lets garbage slip.
Resigned to her care, Grandma sees an chance to ruin my hair.
Grandmas are often the only people capable of providing unconditional support. They believe you are doing exactly what you need to do to get to where you need to go.
Grandmas create a cohesive force for politically and socially fractured families. Without that force, those in orbit often drift away.