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I've been thinking about breakfast.  Specifically, eggs made with various ingredients from the fridge.  And orange juice that clings to the side of the glass.  And the sound of newspaper opening and closing.  I am thinking of my Grandmother in her bathrobe, smiling, her hair a cotton-candy mess.  I am thinking of choosing which kind of cereal and sitting at the table while the air conditioning whirls and tings in the background.  I am thinking of place-mats and the smell of fresh coffee.

Lately I've been wondering why I never took time to ask my grandparents how they met.  What did they think when they first saw each other?  How did they know this was 'it'?  Did they write to each other every day when my Grandpa was off fighting World War II?  Did they struggle the way that I do, did they wonder if they were doing it all wrong, did they give up and start over?  I wish I had asked so many questions, I wish I had more time to ask them. 

I have this idealized version of my grandparents in my head.  They are sweet, polite, reserved, and intelligent.  My Grandpa is a gentleman of the first degree, he dotes upon his wife and humors his children.  My Grandmother is old school class, all manners and lightness, but also an emancipated woman. 

My Dad told a story once about her resolve.  My Grandfather had lost his job, layoffs or something like that.  My Grandmother, worried that he wouldn't find employ, packed her three small children in her car and drove them to a hospital where she had an interview for a job.  She didn't tell my Grandfather, he only found out when he saw them drive past. 

She got the job, by the way.  She was just that sort.

I hope someday to be that sort too.

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