Talk about something you inherited.
We don't talk much about Grams, though not for lack of topics. Grams lives as a testament to all the personality and zest for life that exists in my paternal family line that somehow skipped over my father's generation. At our scarce family reunions, whenever she is mentioned it is usually done so with a sigh and a quick change of topic.
Grams is alive, though. She lives with my Aunt Barbara and Uncle Anthony up north where it's colder and they can keep her in doors most of the time. Though the cost of such an arrangement is that their furniture perpetually smells of cigars.
You see, according to Aunt Barbara, Grams is a chronic liar. I say that she's an avid storyteller, which is also sort of true, depending on your point of view.
Grams has been in this world round a complete century and still going strong. She laughs at anti-smoking campaigns and Uncle Billington's lectures on the evils of alcohol, and her pockets are constantly flowing with sweets that have long been disbanded. Grams talks about the sights she's seen, the men she's had and the women she's trampled on. She mocks her sons and sons-in-law for their live choices and gives rather graphic tips to her daughters and daughters-in-law on keeping their, uh, lives interesting.
My stepmother calls her a rancid old hag who has mistaken fantasy for history. My father is more polite, and says that she prefers to believe things that make her more interesting to others.
Me, I don't care either way. I don't see what difference it makes if Grams lies or tells the truth, because she's happy. I've never seen Grams without a smile on her face, even when she talks about the three husbands and two children she's buried over the years. Even when she's stuck in a stuffy old house looking out into the snow, she glows with a sunshine of a life well-lived. If anything, we should envy her for having such joy.
I get along great with Grams, and though I've never tried it, I think that if I were to tell that I'd battled goblins to save Toby, she would grin and commend me on my admirable efforts. I don't see Grams that much anymore, since the stepmother disapproves of her.
And it is from Grams that I take the most of my personality from. Though I get my attraction to fanciful things from my mother, it is from Grams that I get my strongest traits. She is the one who is inherently stubborn, selfish and possessive. She believes in the unbelievable and doesn't give a damn what other people think. My aunts and uncles are scandalised by her behavior, and they learnt to be more so with me, when I started to show my true anti-social colors the moment I hit adolescence.
Grams drives other people crazy. The only difference between her and I is that she's cooller, tougher, and doesn't turn into an idiot at the first sign of a verbal enemy.
Muse: Sarah
Fandom: Labyrinth
Grams is alive, though. She lives with my Aunt Barbara and Uncle Anthony up north where it's colder and they can keep her in doors most of the time. Though the cost of such an arrangement is that their furniture perpetually smells of cigars.
You see, according to Aunt Barbara, Grams is a chronic liar. I say that she's an avid storyteller, which is also sort of true, depending on your point of view.
Grams has been in this world round a complete century and still going strong. She laughs at anti-smoking campaigns and Uncle Billington's lectures on the evils of alcohol, and her pockets are constantly flowing with sweets that have long been disbanded. Grams talks about the sights she's seen, the men she's had and the women she's trampled on. She mocks her sons and sons-in-law for their live choices and gives rather graphic tips to her daughters and daughters-in-law on keeping their, uh, lives interesting.
My stepmother calls her a rancid old hag who has mistaken fantasy for history. My father is more polite, and says that she prefers to believe things that make her more interesting to others.
Me, I don't care either way. I don't see what difference it makes if Grams lies or tells the truth, because she's happy. I've never seen Grams without a smile on her face, even when she talks about the three husbands and two children she's buried over the years. Even when she's stuck in a stuffy old house looking out into the snow, she glows with a sunshine of a life well-lived. If anything, we should envy her for having such joy.
I get along great with Grams, and though I've never tried it, I think that if I were to tell that I'd battled goblins to save Toby, she would grin and commend me on my admirable efforts. I don't see Grams that much anymore, since the stepmother disapproves of her.
And it is from Grams that I take the most of my personality from. Though I get my attraction to fanciful things from my mother, it is from Grams that I get my strongest traits. She is the one who is inherently stubborn, selfish and possessive. She believes in the unbelievable and doesn't give a damn what other people think. My aunts and uncles are scandalised by her behavior, and they learnt to be more so with me, when I started to show my true anti-social colors the moment I hit adolescence.
Grams drives other people crazy. The only difference between her and I is that she's cooller, tougher, and doesn't turn into an idiot at the first sign of a verbal enemy.
Muse: Sarah
Fandom: Labyrinth