How could I not talk about my grandparents when presented with the letter G?
|EXACTLY what we ate. Mmmmmm.|
We’ll start with my dad’s parents. My Grammy Sis and Papa Pete were Italians. Family functions were boisterous events full of wine and delicious foods, like spaghetti, fried peppers with Rita’s Italian bread, and smelts. They were loud, hollering when they needed something, never hesitating to yell across the room or talk over the other twelve or so relatives who were visiting. They gave big, tight hugs. My Gram told dirty jokes to the priest and my Papa dared me to punch him in the stomach to show how strong he was.
|A smoking man, in case|
you've never seen one.
My mom’s parents were the exact opposite. They lived quietly. Family events were small, just my Grandma June, Grandpa Burke, and my family, and filled with elegant foods like lamb, or chicken and mushrooms. They had wine too, but it came from my grandpa’s personal wine cellar in the basement. The nights were softer, and I’d crawl on my grandpa’s lap while he watched Doctor Who, or sit at the kitchen table, watching smoke swirl from a Smoking Man, as my grandma cooked. In the morning, I’d watch from the window while quail darted in and out of the cactus garden and fog lingered on the road.
And they were both wonderful. I couldn't have asked for anything better.
Beth – 1
Grandparents – there is no way to measure their worth