Today is my grandmother Fern's birthday. I never knew her. She died from kidney failure in 1975. It feels strange to call someone I never knew Grandma, unless I feel a connection like Brett does to his mom's mom, Ardis who was a teacher. If I seek for Fern maybe I will find it and feel it. Mom, Gabe, and I are going to the cemetary this week to visit her.
Saturday morning I came downstairs to Camille and Gabe cuddling underneath heaps of Fancy Nancy and The Cow Who Jumped over the Moon fleece in Camille's 1920's rusted iron bed that we got from a woman in Bellingham whose daughter slept in it until she was eighteen. Gabe loves to cuddle and will leap out of his (feet hit the wood floor) and leap into hers every morning. I overheard Camille telling Gabe, "When I am twenty, you will be seventeen. Soon, we won't live with Mom and Dad anymore. They will be our Grandparents." It makes me think, first (well, not exactly first because my mind doesn't work in chronological order) but that my two are changing. I watched Camille across the table last night laughing, covered in blush. We think we walk but we run into serious roles, become those before, a rather quick, abrupt movement when I venture into days before I was thirty-three and she was seven.