Last weekend was a long weekend, so I spent it in Shawville, staying with my grandmother. We love to fight. No, not knock-down-drag-out fighting, but light bickering at each other which lets us know, in a very dysfunctional way, that we love each other. She lets me bring my cat. Usually, if I'm visiting for the weekend, I'm only spending one night, so I won't bring the cat. But on long weekends, I pack up Ruby and we take up residence on Dufferin Street. My grandmother feigns dislike for the cat, but really she loves her too. That's the cat behind the curtain in my grandmother's bedroom window.
Watching hockey is an adventure with my grandmother. Lately, she has a hate on for Sidney Crosby. As soon as someone mentions his name on the tv, she starts screaming obscenities (well, obscenities as far as she's concerned). Well, tonight he scored the winning goal in the shoot-out against Switzerland. I, of course, had to call her up immediately and cheer loudly on the phone for Sid the Kid. She shouted obscenities at me.
But I do love her. And I'm thankful for her.
This is her as a child with her parents, probably around 1940.