Why did the process of leaving a family friend or relative’s house seem to take forever? Little kids hated adult small talk, “My how you’ve grown. What grade were you in school? You’re almost as tall as your older brother.”
Adult chattering never stopped. Pitiful expressions, tugging at mom’s skirt, never made the process go faster. Going to your father for help didn’t work, either. His standard response, “Go ask your mother.” Which really meant, he knew from years of experience, saying goodbye could not be hurried.
Two generations later, blessed with more patience, the process hadn’t changed. Only the players in these mini-dramas were different. Grandma, family matriarch, cooked at home–did most of the cooking away from home.
For that reason, the head chef needed proper utensils, small appliances, to feel at home away from home–anything easily transportable.
Leftovers had to be divvied up. Grandma refereed the process. “Don’t take all of that–take more of this. Your sister likes cranberries, you know.”
“Where were the…
Mr. Henry was the one admitted as a patient, but the nurses took care of Miss Alice, too. Mr. Henry had to have been in his late forties when he married simple-minded little Miss Alice, a girl of fourteen. Nowadays, that would have been a case for the courts, but when it happened back in the sixties, there was no one to speak for Miss Alice. They’d been married more than thirty years when I knew them and appeared to dote on each other. Miss Alice never voluntarily left his side, except to go down to the courtyard to bum cigarettes from patients and staff smoking in the long ago days when hospitals had smoking areas. Sometimes she even talked folks out of a little money. After a successful run, she’d bring a couple back up to him to smoke in the room. Miss Alice ended almost every conversation with, “I…
I just entered one of my story in a short story competition. Can you people take five minutes and vote for me??
Nutsrok 