knowing
the more i learn about my family: grandpa, grandma, dad and the boatload of aunties and uncles, the clearer my picture of 'where i'm from' gets. my camera just gets upgraded with each story.
thoughts on Granddad. Dad said he was a bulldog. Gram says he would eat dinner with one hand in a fist and all the children would eat everything on their plate; not that he ever hit one but he ensured they ate what was cooked.
When he was in the Kindred Hospital about a year or two before he died of prostate cancer, Adrienne called up and he picked up the phone and said: "Can't talk, I'm dying!" Oh, man! I laugh, but can't help but wonder how she managed the next hour.
Grandma said when Grandpa came home from the war he and the other vetrans would continue to wear their uniforms around town. The morning that he got back Granpa asked for a pound of bacon and a dozen eggs, and he ate them up greedily. Then, they traveled up to Minnesota to Grandpa's family farm where he continued to have this "staple" breakfast day after day, until he could't fit into his uniform anymore.
We were sitting in the kitchen the other day and outside we could hear an airplane zooming overhead. "When I was a little girl," says Grandma, "we used to run outside at the sound of airplanes. They used to fly a lot lower to the ground than they do now and it wasn't as normal of a sight as you see nowdays."
How to kill a chicken: Grab the chook by its legs and quickly whack the chook's head on a chopping stump and whack the head off. Place the chook in cold water to let the feathers come off easily.
Grandma used to walk around the farm with a baby chook in her pocket until the chickie would poo in her pocket. Then it was quickly evicted from its place. "It used to feel so nice in my pocket: warm and fluffy."
thoughts on Granddad. Dad said he was a bulldog. Gram says he would eat dinner with one hand in a fist and all the children would eat everything on their plate; not that he ever hit one but he ensured they ate what was cooked.
When he was in the Kindred Hospital about a year or two before he died of prostate cancer, Adrienne called up and he picked up the phone and said: "Can't talk, I'm dying!" Oh, man! I laugh, but can't help but wonder how she managed the next hour.
Grandma said when Grandpa came home from the war he and the other vetrans would continue to wear their uniforms around town. The morning that he got back Granpa asked for a pound of bacon and a dozen eggs, and he ate them up greedily. Then, they traveled up to Minnesota to Grandpa's family farm where he continued to have this "staple" breakfast day after day, until he could't fit into his uniform anymore.
We were sitting in the kitchen the other day and outside we could hear an airplane zooming overhead. "When I was a little girl," says Grandma, "we used to run outside at the sound of airplanes. They used to fly a lot lower to the ground than they do now and it wasn't as normal of a sight as you see nowdays."
How to kill a chicken: Grab the chook by its legs and quickly whack the chook's head on a chopping stump and whack the head off. Place the chook in cold water to let the feathers come off easily.
Grandma used to walk around the farm with a baby chook in her pocket until the chickie would poo in her pocket. Then it was quickly evicted from its place. "It used to feel so nice in my pocket: warm and fluffy."
posted by Adelheide at 6:55 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home