One of the ways my mom talked me up on Monday morning was by relating how I reminded her of her dad, and how he would act every year when he would do the taxes. "It was like he was wearing a barrel. We were POOR." This was a change from my grandpa's usual twinkly eyes. Most of the time my mom was growing up, they WERE poor. But that usually didn't dispirit anyone. Except for about that week or so per year, on average.

I like family stories, and it did help to cheer me up. But in thinking over it the last few days, it's got melancholy facets also. It's been five years since Grandpa died. I miss him. He gave good bearhugs. I'm happy to know that I resemble him in any way, but I also wish I could still make direct comparisons.

Another facet is that I never met either of my dad's parents at all. I must resemble them in some ways, too, but I have very few ways of knowing. My dad is not the best at remembering lots of details of that sort (or of noticing them in the first place). One day when I was a teenager, I was quite tickled to find a picture of grandma King where she was sitting with one hand in her lap, and her wrist was crooked in a somewhat awkward-looking position -- in fact, in precisely the same pose that my mom was at that time attempting to train ME out of.

I know there must be more than that. I wish I'd been able to learn more.

copyright 2003 carrie lynn king.