I stand up as I notice Ryan walking towards me.  He hands me my ticket.

“So what is it?” he asks with a smile.

“What’s what?” I ask, confused.

“What’s the one thing you and Heather bond over?”

“Delayed flights?” I ask jokingly, looking down at my new ticket, unsure of what he expects me to say. “6pm!?” I scream in frustration. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s just a precaution,” he says calmly. “You’re not going to need that. So, besides flight delays…”

I stop to think again about his question, slightly distracted by the inconvenience written on the paper in my hand. I bend down to grab the blanket and start to fold it up. Looking at Ryan standing there at ease, I somehow know we won’t be spending any more time on the floor of the airport.

 “Our grandmother,” I answer simply, confidently finishing my folding, and then I return the blanket to its home inside my oversized, over-prepared purse.

This is dedicated to “Uncle” Vern. Last night he passed away and I was extremely saddened by the news. Uncle Vern and his wife Aunt Flossie split their time between their home in Florida and their lake house in Upstate New York where I spent many of my summers as a child. He will be missed but never forgotten.

Summers at Grandma and Grandpa’s upstate New York lake house were most exciting.  To this day I still define myself by some of the things I learned there.  I am obsessed, for example, with water skiing. I’ll travel countless miles and pay exorbitant amounts of money just to take in the smell of lake water and gasoline. I am a risk taker and a thrill seeker. Like a drug addict chasing her next high, I jump at the chance to take on a new adventure hoping for that twinge in my stomach which is only achieved when you’re dangling on the edge of comfort and danger.

The first person to give me a taste of this drug was Mr. Vern Nurse. He and his wife Flossie lived next door to the lake house and I came to affectionately call him “Uncle Vern.”  Uncle Vern had four granddaughters and a soft spot in his heart for me. Years before my cousins were born, and before my brother could even crawl, I’d tiptoe barefooted over the roots of the giant oak trees which separated his yard from ours, and climb up onto his wooden swing. Uncle Vern had built this swing himself – likely for his own granddaughters who were starting to outgrow it – with a large piece of wood and long twisted ropes that wrapped around the branches far overhead. And if I was lucky, he’d emerge from his home or his work bench in his garage to give me a push on the swing.

“Higher, higher Uncle Vern,” I’d squeal as I felt his strong hands grab onto the ropes. With one thrust of his strength I’d soar into the air, my stomach leaping into my throat like tiny frogs jumping out of a hot pot.

“Higher,” I’d scream again, and I’d watch as my pointed toes seemed to touch the roof of his house. If he had only been using half his strength, I was none the wiser, but if you ask me, he wasn’t holding back. He could sense the twinkle in my eye and the tone in my voice as I begged for another push. This is probably why, years later, when I’d show up on his dock hoping for lap around the lake behind his boat, he was never surprised. After all, he had started it.

“Those who don’t finish their meals,” Grandma continued taking Megan’s plate from her and lifting her down from the bar stool, “don’t get dessert. That’s my rule and there’ll be no exceptions.”

I heard the clicking of bare feet against the rod iron spiral staircase.  Michael who was about six years old, but twice the size of most boys his age, had conveniently disappeared during cleanup, but returned to the kitchen carrying a box-set of cards.

“Can we play cards tonight Grandma?” he asked climbing up onto the dining room table bench. 

The table reminded me of a picnic table you’d find in a park, only it was a lot sturdier with a high-gloss finish. The texture of the old wood showed signs of aging and the long benches were so heavy they required us kids to lift one side, and then the other, in order to pull them out completely.

The wall on the side of the room housed an antique hutch of the same beautiful dark wood, and on the very top shelf, far out of reach from the children, was a tall glass apothecary jar, the contents of which we each coveted.

During her once-a-month trip to the grocery store - which was about an hour away -Grandma would stock up on goodies for the jar: Swedish Fish, sugar-covered “orange slices” and the occasional chocolate bar. If left to the control of the grandchildren, these highly sought-after treats would have been gobbled within minutes. Instead, Grandma guarded them viciously, divvying out the rations each night after dinner to those who had followed their mother’s dietary rules.

“Sure we can play cards,” Grandma said sweetly as she returned the candy jar to its home high atop the hutch.  She prepared a bowl of freshly picked blueberries in the kitchen and placed them on the table then sat down next to Michael on the bench. She opened up the card box, pulling out two decks of cards, as her three granddaughters gathered around her.

“So what game are we going to play?” Michael asked excitedly pushing himself up onto his knees to get a better view of the table.

“Go fish,” Megan said.  She too was practically standing on the bench in order to reach the table.

“We played that last night,” Michael said, frustrated with the possibility that the youngest may get her way, yet again.

“Old Maid,” Megan returned quickly.

“Megan, Old Maid isn’t played with these kinds of cards,” I tried to explain.

“I want to play a new game,” Michael insisted. “No more boring baby stuff.”

The wheels were turning in Grandma’s head while she shuffled the cards quickly between her hands, her fingers moving rapidly as she stacked the cards, and then reshuffled.

“Hey Michael,” she inquired slowly, looking first at Heather, and then at me. “Have you ever played 52 Pickup?”

Uncle Billy was the youngest, and likely least organized (aka. not neurotic), adult in the group. A good ten years younger than my mother, Uncle Billy had all the signs of being the baby of the family. From an early age he developed the habit of secretly scooping up used wrapping paper and discreetly reassigning it to one of his unwrapped gifts.  As an adult, this practice continued, only he didn’t bother hiding the fact.  He’d wait for the paper to fall, grab it up, and then disappear to another room, only to return with the saddest excuse for a wrapping job any of us had ever seen.

“Hey, it’s not gonna stay wrapped for long,” he’d joke in his strong northern accent as he floated back into the room, arms spread from his sides like a football player returning from a heavy iron-pumping session at the gym.

We’d all roll our eyes and wonder what he’d managed to purchase.  He’d likely done his shopping the evening before with all the other unprepared men who filled the shopping malls  - the likes of whom no one else in the family had ever been exposed.

Thanks for the <3 and reblogs everyone! Feel free to comment, correct, offer up your advice or edits… would love the feedback. :)

I wedge myself on to the crowded airport tram and attempt to hold my balance so as to avoid touching any of the rails and handles. … .  With just the right amount of balance and thigh strength, one can stand even while the tram is coming to a stop.  It’s either a fun city-dweller’s sport, or a surefire way of avoiding contact with the most disgusting of germs. Of course, lose your balance and you’ll be gifted with a face full of scummy subway floorboards.

(c) Heather Broeker 2011

tpdsaa:

Submitted by brandy gill.

writersexcuses:

I had a friend’s friend pass away this weekend. I will not able to to finish the assignment. I had told you I was more than half way finished with the assignment, but that was not true. I should have been more honest, but I was upset over the grief of my friend’s friend.

Seriously, how many degrees of separation are really allowed?  Get your $#*% done!

- I had a friend’s friend’s former roomate’s mother’s gerbil die and I can’t complete this assignment