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Sawing logs
Feb. 12th, 2015 08:45 pmIs it weird that hearing Andrew snore makes me miss my grandpa?
They sound the same, that's all. (It wouldn't surprise me if sleep apnea was another thing Andrew and Grandpa had in common.)
Neither of my parents snored so when I was a kid I only heard this when I was staying over at my grandparents'. I remember it seeming such a strange and alien sound, one I childishly attempted to replicate myself but of course I failed hideously, not just because I was awake but because I didn't really understand how the sound was produced, I didn't know what to try to make my body do.
Like everything about sleeping over at my grandparents', my memories of this are associated with entirely happy things: the novelty of different toys, a different one of the three available TV channels than would be on in my house, maybe we'd get ice cream or popcorn, already knowing what clothes I'd be wearing the next day because they were packed neatly away in my little duffle bag, the adventure of getting to sleep on the floor (at the foot of my grandparents' bed if I was there on my own, in the living room if Chris was staying too because he needed the reassurance of being able to sit up and check that people were there if he woke up in the night), waiting to fall asleep and knowing that while Grandma would offer, as always, to make us whatever we wanted for breakfast in the morning we'd ask, as always, for pancakes, which she'd make from scratch and which are still the standard by which I judge all subsequent pancakes and find them all lacking.
They sound the same, that's all. (It wouldn't surprise me if sleep apnea was another thing Andrew and Grandpa had in common.)
Neither of my parents snored so when I was a kid I only heard this when I was staying over at my grandparents'. I remember it seeming such a strange and alien sound, one I childishly attempted to replicate myself but of course I failed hideously, not just because I was awake but because I didn't really understand how the sound was produced, I didn't know what to try to make my body do.
Like everything about sleeping over at my grandparents', my memories of this are associated with entirely happy things: the novelty of different toys, a different one of the three available TV channels than would be on in my house, maybe we'd get ice cream or popcorn, already knowing what clothes I'd be wearing the next day because they were packed neatly away in my little duffle bag, the adventure of getting to sleep on the floor (at the foot of my grandparents' bed if I was there on my own, in the living room if Chris was staying too because he needed the reassurance of being able to sit up and check that people were there if he woke up in the night), waiting to fall asleep and knowing that while Grandma would offer, as always, to make us whatever we wanted for breakfast in the morning we'd ask, as always, for pancakes, which she'd make from scratch and which are still the standard by which I judge all subsequent pancakes and find them all lacking.