|DIARY OF AN URBAN MILKMAID|
|When I was a little girl, our family would visit my grandmother, Doris, nearly every weekend.
My grandmother was very short and round, and always wore a housedress - you know, those tent shaped, sleevless ones that button down the front. She had long, silver hair that she wore pinned up in a bun on the top of her head. My grandmother never wore her dentures, so her "f"'s sounded a lot like "p"'s.
My grandmother served boiled navy beans and slices of Webber's white bread with every meal - even Christmas dinner.
My father would be in the living room with one or more of his brothers - drinking beer and watching whatever sporting event was on the television. They didn't talk much, and usually they took their shirts off. That kind of grossed me out - plus it was pretty boring. I would ultimately wind up in the kitchen with the women-folk - my mother and a couple of aunts - sitting around my grandmother's formica table. The women would be drinking coffee from little melmac teacups, and talking about one thing or another.
Sometimes, they would allow me to have a small teacup of coffee, with half milk and sugar.
I could sit there, for hours and hours - just listening to the sound of their voices, sipping my coffee and watching my grandmother sweep imaginary crumbs off her formica table top.
|Buh Bye! |
October 05, 2008
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I'm a Rich Ho-Bag
|Marriage is love.|