grandparents

Becoming a grandparent makes getting older something to look forward to - all the fun of parenting, without the hassle.

The Book Yet to Be Written
It has been a week since the death of my grandmother. I can still see her smiling face sitting across from me at the dining room table, cracking jokes and laughing at the “sprites” dancing in the kitchen. She was always an odd bird, set in her ways and walking her own path. All who met her were bewitched by her words and charisma.
By Elle Peabody5 years ago in Families
For The Things You Want To Remember. Third Place in Little Black Book Challenge.
I was eating a ham sandwich when my neighbour called round. A hint of concern accompanied the newspaper he brought me like an unwanted side of salad. Served with salad or with sympathy? I don’t know which is worse. We didn’t need either of them in my day: sausages and a stiff upper lip that’s what this country used to run on.
By Laura Jeffrey5 years ago in Families
Little Black Book.
I want to ask you, what do you do when things are simply provided? Do you, a, accept and stay behind the precarious line of not asking the questions you want to, or b, give into what is your first reaction, questioning why and how, never stopping to realize that you can simply just accept and things will be so much easier. And one more question, why is our first reaction to make things harder for ourselves? Maybe because we as humans have always had to fight. Never a dull moment. We simply can’t turn the other way with what we have. It isn’t enough.
By Hallie Richardson5 years ago in Families
To Nana and Papa
When I was in elementary school, I learned to write the alphabet. I was so impressed with my writing that when my grandparents came to visit, I showed them my work in my writing tablet. My grandmother said, “If you write the alphabet every day, I’ll give you 50 cents.” She had a deal.👍🏽
By Christine Smith5 years ago in Families
Parting Gifts
Yesterday was the first time that I didn’t share a birthday with my grandmother. Six months after we were too late in finding her cancer; terminal, malignant. The time she had was measured in weeks, not months. No one bothered humoring her with percentages for survival, and we knew better than to ask.
By Dylan Smith5 years ago in Families
"I wish you luck"
Growing up, I could never keep a diary. I tried, of course – it was something young girls were supposed to do – but it never lasted. My hands would cramp from writing too much, everything spilling out like water over the edge of an overfilled tub. My hand couldn’t keep up with my brain, as one of my 4th grade teachers said when discussing my messy penmanship. Then there would be days, weeks, months where I would forget, the diary sitting forgotten, and I would feel guilty and resume. Then I would start writing again, trying to “fill in” the imaginary friend that was the little black book my mother bought me to “help me express myself”. But I would get tired of trying to relate everything that had happened in the interim, so I would always give up.
By Christie Sausa5 years ago in Families
Black magic
The little notebook was powerful. Literally. Her grandmother had long recounted tales of the magical item, often dotingly gesturing to its pride of place on the mantel piece. The girl had grown up gazing in wonder at the box that was stationed there, for her grandmother kept the book delicately wrapped in soft tissue and nuzzled within an ornately patterned hat box, the very one that had once contained her bridal bonnet.
By Vicki L5 years ago in Families
Birdy
“Don’t tell anyone Lilly.” “Why, gramma?” “Because it’s our little secret, that’s why.” My late grandmother Birdy left me some of her most valued treasures. Her round green silk hat box she bought in Japan was full of her favorite trinkets. I also kept some of her antique furniture with her items still in them in my garage. I didn’t have the room for them but I couldn’t give them away. I kept thinking that one day I would have a special place for them.
By GINA NEMO5 years ago in Families
The Little Black Book
The Little Black Book Bethany Williams That damn black book. He corrected himself, that darn black book. Even with his grandma dead and buried, standing in her house, he felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. She always had a newspaper ready to whack him and his brothers with—for cussing, for being too noisy, too dirty, too alive. And later she would smile and point to it. Her little black notebook. She was always writing in it. For twenty-eight years Alan had watched her. She would point to it and say, “Someday this will be yours, Alan. Someday you’ll understand everything” And he would say, “Yes, Grandma Baker.” Never Granny or Gran or Maw-Maw. She was always Grandma Baker to her grandchildren.
By Bethany Williams5 years ago in Families
Grandad
Grandad had always been interested in the sea, for as long as I had known him, and for as long as my mum and dad and aunts and uncles had known him too. I don’t know whether his interest predated my grandma or not, since she had died when I was very young, but I assume that it did.
By George Knight5 years ago in Families
Under the Aspen Tree
ASPEN TREE : tree of heroes / shield tree / power to visit the underworld and return safely / all roots connect WISHBONE : “little fork” / formed by the fusion of two clavicles / primary function is the strengthening of the thoracic skeleton to withstand the vigor of flight / lifting the wings during the recovery stroke
By Angela Grillo5 years ago in Families
The Promise
Ella yawned, stretched and slowly prised open her eyes, gradually taking in the strange surroundings. Her mouth and tongue were as sticky as flypaper, her throat parched and raw with a lingering chemical aftertaste. She reached out blindly, grasped a tepid bottle of water and gulped it down in a vain attempt to quench her raging thirst.
By Joanne Wilson5 years ago in Families