“Where is your mother?” Gramma asked.
I explained for the second time that Mom was eating at Bob Evans with some friends and would be bringing a plate home for Gramma when she came home shortly.
Fifteen or so minutes passed while Gramma tried to figure out what the weather was like based on the weather of the football game we were watching – early snow there in New Jersey this afternoon.
“Open that blind,” she instructed me, “I want to see if it’s snowing.”
I opened the blind. No snow.
“What is today?” she asked, unconvinced what was blowing all over the television wasn’t outside as well. “And not the day¸the date?”
“October 29th.
“Oh my,” she exclaimed. “This is too early for snow.”
“Yes,” I assured her. “Even there in New Jersey.”
Fifteen or so minutes passed while Gramma tried to decide where she would sleep for the night. (A routine that always ends in her deciding to sleep in her own bed, in her own room.)
“I don’t think it’s a good night for me to sleep outside,” she said.
“Why would you sleep outside?”
“Well, is that place I sleep inside?”
“Of course it is.”
“But it doesn’t have any air.”
“Air?”
“I mean heat.”
“Yes it does.”
“Does it? Good.”
Okay that’s settled. She’s sleeping in her room, in her bed, with much heat. There will be no sleeping in the television’s snow globe of which she apparently felt involved.
Fifteen or so minutes passed in silence. The game was back and forth, seven lead changes up to that point. Finally, our team had a decisive lead, and all was looking good.
“Where is your mother?” Gramma asked me again, easily the fifth time she’s asked since the second half of the game began.
“Bob Evans!” I said, shortening my answer out of frustration at being asked so many times, and to perhaps spark her memory of the rest of the answer.
“Oh, that’s right, she’s supposed to bring me a plate,” Gramma said, answering her own question.
Fifteen or so minutes passed as she described the weather conditions under which she has driven in her life. Snow continued to fall at the football game on television. And, by the way, Gramma has driven in all kinds of weather, but she didn’t consider it wise to be out on an evening like this one.
“Where’s your mother?” she asked again.
Slowly I turned.
I stared into Gramma’s questioning eyes. I raised an eyebrow in a you-did-not-just-ask-me-that pose. Gramma looked confused, waiting for me to answer her question. I raised both eyebrows in a where-do-you-think-she-is pose. Gramma started giggling. And then I shook my head a little in a come-on-you-know-what-I-mean pose.
Gramma started laughing out loud. Soon it escalated to what would surely qualify as LOL if Gramma were telling the story via text message. Finally, she could hardly speak for laughing. (LMAO, if you ask me.) Finally, she did manage to say through her laughter, “I’ve asked you that…over and over.”
“Yes, you have. Luckily, my answer has remained the same as well.”
Gramma laughed even harder (ROTFLOL, no doubt.)
I love to watch my grandmother laugh. And, every time she does so with such gusto and abandon, I think (IMHO), having someone to make you laugh is wonderful, but, at any age, having the ability to laugh at yourself is priceless.
