Rocking
Every day, I say I am going to blog more. And every day, I am inundated with tiny tasks that take me, like today, right past my bedtime. Also, there is faulty internet at this hotel. And how interested are you really in what is going through my head?
What is going through my head is that I’d like to know what to wear to a memorial barbecue. It’s not a church service. Do I have to wear black? I don’t really mind wearing a dress. I like dresses. I just hate wearing “appropriate shoes” with them.
Tomorrow, I will remember, along with several family members, Margaret, my grandmother. Nobody could knit better or type faster. I loved Margaret because she told it like it was. We watched a lot of beauty pageants together, even though we didn’t really care that much about them. Even so, at age 98, bright candy apple red toe nails were still popping out from under the sheets at the nursing home, and when my mother called to say hello, she yelled at the phone, “Tell Thelma that Louise says hello!”
One of our last conversations at the nursing home went like this…
Margaret: When I get out of this place, I’m going to go home to Charlottesville, and I’m going to sit outside the house with a book and I’m going to rock!
Me: We’ll have to come see you, and Randy can bring his guitar, and maybe he’ll rock too.
Margaret: Randy would rock? Does he like to rock?
Me: Well, yes, but I meant on the guitar. He’d play his guitar.
Margaret: Would he really do that for me?
Me: Yes, of course.
Margaret: I think I’d like that.
She didn’t it back to do that…but tomorrow, I will visit her cabin in the woods, and if the chair is still there, I’m going to rock.
