August 27, 2010

No One Quite like Grandma

My grandma likes to sit in the sink. It reminds her of when she was a baby, so she says. Although, for the life of me, I can’t imagine she has any recollection of that event at all. Did they even have sinks back then? Turn-of-the-century Bolzano, on a farm? Over the river and through the woods? A bucket, maybe but not a sink. Or a trough. Ok, that’s mean. I am absolutely not inferring, that they lived like pigs. But they did have pigs. And cows, goats, chickens and geese.

One story my grandma tells at regular intervals is the pig slaughtering tale. She presents this anecdote as proof she’s not common country stock but was always meant for higher callings of the sagacious kind.

I’m not certain “sagacious” comes to mind as she recounts squealing pigs and her running to the farthest end of the house, hiding under the bed to escape the sounds of a life ending, but well, point taken. She doesn’t eat pork. And loves to sit in the sink.

I’ve had a revelation: she probably does it to wash herself clean of the blood that never touched her hands. Or maybe, it had.

I wonder what Freud would think.

thanks to Ande Waggner and the awesome feature on her blog, Daily Writing Practice

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