Every day, when my dad would go to work, I would go to Granny's house. The sound her front door makes, scraping against the carpet when it opens, is still a sound I can hear clearly when I think about it. It is a sound of welcome.
My days with Granny were typically pretty similar. First Granny would gossip with her neighbors; ladies with names like Dixie and Trixie and Lola. I was rarely interested to know who was driving the red truck that passed after dark last night but they always seemed to need to know exactly what transpired in those 1.2 seconds someone they didn't know rolled by. At 11 sharp we watched The Price is Right, playing along guessing who was going to win the Winnebago in the Showcase Showdown. Following the noon news the worst part of my day happened. It was when what my grandmother called her "Stories" came on. I adored Rod Roddy's sparkly suits and those weird long skinny microphones, and was always disappointed when Bob said to spay and neuter your pets (which you should, by the way) because that meant his hour of entertaining me was drawing to a close. But those Stories...I absolutely loathed them. I never understood why the actors always stood with their backs to one another, both facing the camera at the same time. I mean really, why would you have a serious "I murdered your stepmom because you cheated on me with her brother" type conversation without looking at each other. Thinking back on it, I suppose it was to save on filming time and getting everything in one shot as those suckers do run every day but I still. My Granny enjoyed them so much though. I made sure she enjoyed them less by whimpering and whining and begging for them to end. (I think about that a lot these days when most of Harper's time is spent in a similar tantrum while I am working. Her Stories equal sanding and her Price is Right is chasing tennis balls.)
|Harper leads the way as|
we walk up to the knob.