Here we are as in olden days...
Dec. 25th, 2011 12:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cosmolinguistMy grandpa's always been the one most likely to tell us he loved us. The dementia helps too; he forgets how emotionally reticent and repressed everybody's brought up to be around here.
But he remembers a lot. He was telling Andrew tonight about the wood work he used to do; the doll house he made me. He sent my grandma, and then my aunt and my mom, venturing into the photo albums in the little-used upstairs bedroom, to find me pictures of the other dollhouses he made from scratch and sold for less than they were worth.
It got me looking at the rest of the album, which was delightfully random, ranging from grainy black-and-white farmhouses that I don't know the significance of, to my dad's long seventies hair, to an array of poor dress and hairstyle choices foisted upon me by my mother in my first decade of life. In many of that last group of pictures, several from previous Christmases in the very room where I then was, my brother was grinning away. Always the photogenic one. He was given some ridiculous outfits too but never suffered the hair atrocities that I had to.
"I really miss Chris," Grandpa told Andrew and I while other people were at church or busy getting dinner ready. "He used to come around and see me, help out if I needed anything." He mowed lawn and did the snowblowing for my grandpa when he was in high school. "No one else does that now," Grandpa said matter-of-factly.
I really miss Chris too. It seems like no one else talks about this, but I'm glad someone does. It's hard to listen to, but it's better than having to do all the talking myself.
But he remembers a lot. He was telling Andrew tonight about the wood work he used to do; the doll house he made me. He sent my grandma, and then my aunt and my mom, venturing into the photo albums in the little-used upstairs bedroom, to find me pictures of the other dollhouses he made from scratch and sold for less than they were worth.
It got me looking at the rest of the album, which was delightfully random, ranging from grainy black-and-white farmhouses that I don't know the significance of, to my dad's long seventies hair, to an array of poor dress and hairstyle choices foisted upon me by my mother in my first decade of life. In many of that last group of pictures, several from previous Christmases in the very room where I then was, my brother was grinning away. Always the photogenic one. He was given some ridiculous outfits too but never suffered the hair atrocities that I had to.
"I really miss Chris," Grandpa told Andrew and I while other people were at church or busy getting dinner ready. "He used to come around and see me, help out if I needed anything." He mowed lawn and did the snowblowing for my grandpa when he was in high school. "No one else does that now," Grandpa said matter-of-factly.
I really miss Chris too. It seems like no one else talks about this, but I'm glad someone does. It's hard to listen to, but it's better than having to do all the talking myself.