When I was a child, the Saturday before Memorial Day was always reserved for going to the cemetery. Grandma would be up at dawn and waiting for us on her front porch. By the time our car rounded her street corner and rolled to a stop in a cloud of dust, she’d be out the gate, smoothing her crisp, cotton house dress and adjusting her starched sunbonnet. Her thick heeled shoes were no nonsense, her stockings sturdy. Though she was thin there was nothing sheer about Grandma. Yellow peonies, red geraniums and purple pansies spilled from the large wooden basket on her arm. She’d stow the basket and a variety of rakes and gardening tools into the trunk before climbing into the front seat beside mother. I didn’t know then about measuring love with rakes and flowers. But Grandma did. As the car snaked its way along winding country lanes, the somber mood in the front seat failed to inhibit my behavior. ...
"All the characters who have housed my stories now have permanent apartments in my head - I still have tea with them." bw