Now before I post this picture, I want to give it the context it deserves. Here are the things you need to know. I have a grandmother. I wouldn't say we're close (because we're not--neither geographically, nor relationally), but we get on when we're in the same room. No one would accuse Grandma of being overly sentimental, but she has sent me many hand-sewn flannel pajamas and cigarette-flavored Christmas cookies over the years, and treated me well on the scant occasions our paths have crossed.
Because of the distance between her and her children (I'll let you decide if that's geographically or otherwise), Grandma is a letter writer. That's something Grandma and I are of a mind on; we like licking envelops and trekking to the mailbox. For all my GF friends out there, don't worry. I don't actually lick the envelopes; I know better. Anyway, Grandma and I write--not to each other, of course; unless you count the occasional thank-you card. We write people. Our own people. I send cards, mostly because cards make me laugh and it's not easy to get a laugh these days. I fill them on both sides and often the back with what my card-recieving friends would term illegible gibberish. But I then stuff the envelope with pictures of Justin Bieber (SP?) or torn out recipes or articles--something to give my post a little gravity.
Grandma, though, she goes old school. Which makes sense because she graduated from that school in 1902. She has a typewriter. You want to call her hipster, don't you? But unless you mean that her hips are brittle and she should get her mustache bleached, you're wrong. She'd just a relic of the past and I really, really like that about her. Or I did before I read my mother's mail. I wouldn't usually do that, but when a person sees his or her own name in a typewritten letter, one wonders if one has kicked the wrong can and traveled back in time. One must investigate. Perhaps one should have minded her own business.
Please enjoy the following paragraph:
Because of the distance between her and her children (I'll let you decide if that's geographically or otherwise), Grandma is a letter writer. That's something Grandma and I are of a mind on; we like licking envelops and trekking to the mailbox. For all my GF friends out there, don't worry. I don't actually lick the envelopes; I know better. Anyway, Grandma and I write--not to each other, of course; unless you count the occasional thank-you card. We write people. Our own people. I send cards, mostly because cards make me laugh and it's not easy to get a laugh these days. I fill them on both sides and often the back with what my card-recieving friends would term illegible gibberish. But I then stuff the envelope with pictures of Justin Bieber (SP?) or torn out recipes or articles--something to give my post a little gravity.
Grandma, though, she goes old school. Which makes sense because she graduated from that school in 1902. She has a typewriter. You want to call her hipster, don't you? But unless you mean that her hips are brittle and she should get her mustache bleached, you're wrong. She'd just a relic of the past and I really, really like that about her. Or I did before I read my mother's mail. I wouldn't usually do that, but when a person sees his or her own name in a typewritten letter, one wonders if one has kicked the wrong can and traveled back in time. One must investigate. Perhaps one should have minded her own business.
Please enjoy the following paragraph:
For the record, I have a social life all year round. But my grandmother, like her daughter after her, can't seem to bring herself to call someone's boyfriend her boyfriend. There are a dozen or more euphemisms I've heard over the years to avoid this strangely offensive term, but "social life" is a new one on me. And I'll be honest. I love it.
Grandma's right to lament that my "social life" is a part-time engagement. He's a hotshot for the forest service (hotshot is a job title, not bragging rights), and that means he's gone for fire season--approximately half the year. That half of the year just started this week, so I'm sure you'll witness my slow decline into social-lifeless insanity over the coming months.
What I love most about all this is the practicality of the elderly. My grandmother was married to the same man for roughly 200 years, and he was a stable man who provided as well as any man could for six children and a wife. He had plans for when he was too old to be a major carpenter--he became a minor carpenter and crafted all kinds of fabulous things out of wood, some of which I am lucky to have been the recipient.
In truth, my grandma and I don't really know each other. I can count on one hand the number of times I've spent with her when I was old enough to remember. I'd be lying if I said I thought she liked me. But after reading this letter, I'm not so sure. For whatever reason (probably because every woman her age has a touch of nostalgia for the Peyton Place lifestyle), she seems to have taken an interest in me of late. I don't know if I can convince her to type me a missive of my own any time soon, but I'll keep rifling through my mom's mail. It's as practical a way as any to stay in touch. And if I know my grandma (I don't), she's a practical gal.
***A post script to readers:
If the the hyperbole and sarcastic voice weren't enough of an indication...I'm kidding. My grandmother is a lovely woman, and I'm only poking fun at her because that's what writers do. I mean no offense to her or to any grandmother out there.
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