“What’s the address?” Rand asked. I shrugged. “No idea.” “Is it on this street?” “I think so? The door is green.” (I feel it pertinent to note that nearly half the doors in the village happened to also be green.)
Our plane landed in Naples just as the sun started to set. Vesuvius loomed over the city as we sped out of town, the volcano turning deeper and deeper shades of purple in the fading light. We were heading towards my grandfather’s village. I suppose it eventually became my grandmother’s village, too, after she married him…
I have trouble describing my dad. He’s not incredibly cheerful, but he isn’t melancholy, either. I don’t think anyone would call him warm, nor would it be accurate to say that he’s unfriendly. If I were forced to put his demeanor into words, I’d say he’s rather serious, and often rather annoyed. His annoyance usually…
The first time I saw this thing outside my dad’s house, I sort of snickered. – I remember staring at it, thinking, “Good heavens, that’s just awful. Whatever it is.” And then I pretty much ignored it, except to cast a sideways glance in its direction every time I passed. Now I realize, like nearly…
I went to L.A. and brought him a toy train on a string. I figured it would go over well, and it did. I wasn’t really surprised. He is my brother’s son, after all. He dragged the train around with him, and then he showed it to Rand. –
We are standing in a small courtyard in Munich, when I start acting like my mother, and my brother starts acting exactly like himself. Which, in this instance, means that he’s taken his son’s hand and is pretending to punch things. He even makes the appropriate “Pssht! Pssht!” punching noises. And then -god help me…
My father lives in a rural part of Bavaria, surrounded by farmland. The air is rich with the smell of cows and manure, and traffic jams are caused by tractors. Should you think I am being hyperbolic on that last point: –
My brain is a weensy bit fried. I’m in California, so blogging will be a little slow/light for the rest of the week. I’m visiting my aunt who just had heart surgery yesterday (and since I know you guys will ask, because you are thoughtful like that, she is doing wonderfully. Thank you for your…
– Dear Mom, Please don’t read this post, okay? No, no, it’s not because I talk about how crazy you are. Sheesh, mom … Yes, I know you aren’t crazy. Yes, I realize I make you out to be crazier than you actually are on the blog. The reason I don’t want you to read…
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
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