A Tree Grows In Brooklyn


In fifth grade I checked A Tree Grows In Brooklyn out of the library.  I don't think I got very far, and for some unexplainable reason have never read it since.  Luckily I had a 40% off coupon to boarders and the book I was intending to get was sold out.  I called my older sister, a font of useful knowledge and good conversation, for "what books do I have on my To Read list" advice.  As we talked about possibilities I came face to face with Betty Smith's classic. 

"Oh, A Tree Grows In Brooklyn!"  I say. 
"Yes, get it!" She says. 

She had been telling me less then a week before that it was one of her favorite books and I should read it!  It was a sign.  I purchased it happily and now anticipate soaking up a great, never-been-read book just in time for spring to begin making an appearance.  

The anticipation of a good book...


Evening With Grandpa

My Grandma passed away on the 31st of Jan.  I spent a week in Colorado, helping with preparations and then attending the funeral.  Within three weeks my Grandpa lost his wife of sixty years, his house of thirty years, and his home state.  You see, he needed to be out here with family so they could take care of him.  They brought him over yesterday.  

I went to visit him tonight.  He was distraught and tired and aching.  He didn't understand where he was, and why they had put him there.  The plan is keeping him in this truly wonderful facility that is small and personable where all the meals are home cooked and his walls are painted a soft butter yellow.  Pictures of my Grandma hang on the wall.  

We sat on his old blue sofa in his living area and I patted his hand when he began to moan, or ask why he was not at home.  "Why am I here?" was the oft repeated question.   I told him that he was here to be closer to his family, then I named all his children and added that his grandchildren were here as well.  He then said, "Well, that sounds alright."  One of us will be with him at all times for awhile, the problem is he doesn't remember who his grandchildren are.  Just more strangers.  

"I am your Granddaughter."  I said at one point. 
He looked and smiled, "That's great!"
"And I love you."
"I love you, too."

Later, after my aunt and I had put him into bed, I leaned over and kissed his cheek before going.  Opening his eyes, he smiled and said, "Do I get to kiss your nose?"

"Yes."  I leaned forward and he kissed my nose. "I love you, Grandpa."

"I love you too little lady." 


Exciting and progressive, yet the feelings of a million other directions that "could have been" are asking me if I want to launch myself into this world of elaborate blog backgrounds.  

"I don't want to go to Brooklyn!"

"We've all gotta go sometime."

(For those of you who know that reference, you know what I am talking about.)


X marks the Haunt

Kip and I were called as primary teachers a month or so ago.  Since then I have been put into the Young Women program as well, and so Kip goes to sharing time with the class alone most weeks.  Today we were driving down the road and he told me of a little seven year old who all during sharing time was walking around with a green crayon.  

What was he doing?  He was marking "X" on all the chairs.  Kip was amused and as the little boy worked his way up the row, especially when he caught Kip's eye and said in a solemn, erie manner, "Look at your chair."
"Stand up and if it has a green x on it you will be haunted.  I marked all the chairs and for every chair that I mark they will be haunted by a ghost!  I've marked thirty of them already."  

I can imagine Kip now trying not laugh, and he said that by the time the boy had moved on to the row behind him the green crayon was confiscated.  When sharing time was all over he noticed someone had given the boy a rag and a spray bottle, leaving him to "de-haunt" all thirty of those chairs.