by: Abby
Every week or every other week my family would travel up to my grandma’s house for dinner in Cobleskill. It was about an hour away, and in my view, it wasn’t worth the time to get there. We’d arriv
e, and for the next couple of hours my dad would help her organize her bills while my brother Sam and I would read in her living room. Her fat tabby cat glared at us from across the room until it was time for dinner. I was bored and uncomfortable and hungry. And it didn’t even get better when we left the sight of the cat in favor of the kitchen table for dinner. I was not allowed to eat freely like I could at home, with a furry dog at my feet ready for my scraps and a T.V. playing in the background. We didn’t really eat at the table for dinner at my house, because my mom would have brought home work and my dad worked late. So sitting down around a silverware-covered table at my grandma’s house was always a struggle. I had to use a napkin, keep my elbows off the table, and not tip back the bowl to drink my soup. They may seem like simple, easy corrections to make, but I just wasn’t used to it. I would be on edge the whole of dinner in order to refrain from slipping up. Conversation was limited from my end, because the adults were talking about things I wasn’t interested in and couldn’t comment on. My grandma would talk about the sports she played in high school and how, even though she had broken her nose in softball one time, she later went on to coach a team. I knew my grandma tried to join me in the conversation every now and then by talking about what we had in common, like playing softball, but it was difficult. My grandma’s speaking was almost as hard to understand as her barely legible cursive. Because she spoke the language of adults, talking about random stories from her childhood I usually couldn’t relate to with words I couldn’t unde
rstand, I didn’t look forward to the time we spent together at all. I never thought twice about really getting to know the story of my grandmother until I got to high school and could no longer make it up to her house for the dinners as often. Schoolwork is a weekend job and I rarely have the time. Now that I can’t go to them as often, I miss those dinners and the time I could spend with my grandmother. I have learned the manners required to eat comfortably with her and I have learned enough of the “adult language” to follow the conversation. The evil cat isn’t around anymore, so I don’t even have to give a wide berth to the cat’s favorite yellow and brown checkered recliner. Because of this, whenever I go to her house now, I can actually tune in to what she’s saying and be content to listen to the stories of her time in high school.
Every week or every other week my family would travel up to my grandma’s house for dinner in Cobleskill. It was about an hour away, and in my view, it wasn’t worth the time to get there. We’d arriv
e, and for the next couple of hours my dad would help her organize her bills while my brother Sam and I would read in her living room. Her fat tabby cat glared at us from across the room until it was time for dinner. I was bored and uncomfortable and hungry. And it didn’t even get better when we left the sight of the cat in favor of the kitchen table for dinner. I was not allowed to eat freely like I could at home, with a furry dog at my feet ready for my scraps and a T.V. playing in the background. We didn’t really eat at the table for dinner at my house, because my mom would have brought home work and my dad worked late. So sitting down around a silverware-covered table at my grandma’s house was always a struggle. I had to use a napkin, keep my elbows off the table, and not tip back the bowl to drink my soup. They may seem like simple, easy corrections to make, but I just wasn’t used to it. I would be on edge the whole of dinner in order to refrain from slipping up. Conversation was limited from my end, because the adults were talking about things I wasn’t interested in and couldn’t comment on. My grandma would talk about the sports she played in high school and how, even though she had broken her nose in softball one time, she later went on to coach a team. I knew my grandma tried to join me in the conversation every now and then by talking about what we had in common, like playing softball, but it was difficult. My grandma’s speaking was almost as hard to understand as her barely legible cursive. Because she spoke the language of adults, talking about random stories from her childhood I usually couldn’t relate to with words I couldn’t unde
rstand, I didn’t look forward to the time we spent together at all. I never thought twice about really getting to know the story of my grandmother until I got to high school and could no longer make it up to her house for the dinners as often. Schoolwork is a weekend job and I rarely have the time. Now that I can’t go to them as often, I miss those dinners and the time I could spend with my grandmother. I have learned the manners required to eat comfortably with her and I have learned enough of the “adult language” to follow the conversation. The evil cat isn’t around anymore, so I don’t even have to give a wide berth to the cat’s favorite yellow and brown checkered recliner. Because of this, whenever I go to her house now, I can actually tune in to what she’s saying and be content to listen to the stories of her time in high school.Source Cat Photo:
Source Kid with books Photo:
I really like how you weaved food/ dinner into your article that is mainly about the relationship between your grandmother and you. I also like the transition-- you grew up and know how to communicate with your grandmother, and started to appreciate what she had been doing due to the lack of time. Even though the cat is quite random, it added details to your story and makes it more interesting. i like it!
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