During summer school we had to write an essay of our choice. Groan. It’s easier if the teacher assigns a topic.
What to write without sounding foolish or ignorant? I didn’t know much about
world affairs. Our dinner conversations were mundane stuff like, “How was your day?”
We lived across the street from the fire station. I didn’t think anyone was interested in hearing how my older brother would jump up from the table when he heard the siren, dash outside to hop on his bike, and tear down the street chasing the fire truck. Nope, not an ideal essay topic.
My thoughts wandered to going home and stopping at Grandma Hixenbaugh’s
house. Wait! My pencil flew over the paper. I wrote about Grandma saying, “Give me that baby.” Before long, she rocked a fussy baby to sleep on the front porch. How each grandchild knew Grandma would listen carefully to their words.
Love poured out on that sheet of paper.
The next day, Miss Davidson told the class, “Pat has written a lovely tribute to her grandmother.”
Afterwards, I stopped at Grandma’s and read the essay aloud. Grandma smiled, “Flatterer.”
“No, Grandma, it’s true.”
I cherished that moment.
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