My grandma will be 98 this year. Can't say no, even if we spend more time in the car than plowing through turkey. She's as lucid as most 20 year olds. No hearing aid. Her knee doesn't bend but she could still make a Marine jump.
And the topper: she still lives in her two-story house. No AC. Sleeps upstairs.
|The most lucid 97 year old you'll ever meet. And a bored 18 year old behind her.|
I'm not naive. They know what's what.
This trip, I announce, you can cuss. The deal's only good until the trip is over.
My daughter says, Really?
Yeah. But no f-word. I'm not ready for that, but you can say--
Shit. Piss. Ass. She says it, laughing. Says it like those words are not strangers to her tongue.
We eat Thanksgiving dinner with my 97 year old grandmother. We kiss her on the cheek with our curse-word-fouled lips. We talk to her about growing up, about when she met grandpa, about what it was like in the Depression. We see all our family and laugh and hug and not a dirty word leaves our mouths.
|Eating sack lunch behind a gas station. May as well cuss.|
After 29 hours in the car -- our butts numbs and heads dull with boredom -- we're 1 hour from home, switching stations until we land on a song. My daughter announces from the back seat.