Yesterday, I traveled down to Middletown to help my parents with the long and arduous process of cleaning out my grandparents’ house following their deaths this summer. What a task. More than 60 years of accumulated “stuff”, exacerbated by at least 5 years of no housecleaning (due to physical inability). Many, many trashbags were put on the truck, and much more still awaits hauling.
My point? A very strange thing happened to me while I was there, something I am hesitant to even describe, since I’m typically what you would call a “disbeliever”. Remember back in June when I posted the piece I wrote about my Grandma’s banana bread? In it, I mentioned that I had never acquired my Grandmother’s recipe, because I didn’t think she had one. Anyway, while Mom and I were cleaning out the food cupboard, a pile of papers fell out onto the counter. My mother scooped up the papers, and went to toss them into the trash bag. One (and only one) piece of crinkly yellowed paper fluttered to a stop on the counter in front of me:
What would you think? I was a little freaked, to say the least. And not because she spelled bananas wrong (twice).
