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    Grandma incest stories

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    Meanwhile, my grandmother was leaving us. She swore to get more exercise, to eat better, to stop smoking.

    The oxygen tank hissed as she drew breath from the cord looped over her ears. The last time we spoke was on my twenty-sixth birthday. Three months later, my grandmother was found dead in her mobile home.

    While we waited for the attendants to take her body, my brother sat on the ground picking at his cuticles, his hat pulled low.

    My mother walked in slow circles. I bowed my head so my hair covered my eyes. She placed her hand on the door knob then took it off before turning back to me.

    She hates to be cold. I touched everything with my fingertips, ashamed that even now I was squeamish around her things.

    But its petals remained long after the others faded and dropped. It Was a Sunday by Richard Zamora. We're looking for stories of how addiction or recovery has affected you, your family, your street, your town.

    But also stories from doctors about treating patients in America. From officers confronting drug trafficking.

    From jailers and employers. From judges, paramedics, from pharmacists or public health workers. From pastors dealing with addiction in a congregation.

    We want, too, stories about how community is destroyed and rebuilt, about isolation and collaboration. WhatsYourStory will compile these stories and put them up on social media and elsewhere.

    Of course, names are optional. You can write it yourself, as many have, and click the button below to send it to me or contact us via our contact page and one of our team will be in touch.

    For the next four years, my mother recited her truth. Then, in her younger sister was diagnosed with lung cancer and was dead four months later.

    When her shift ended, she collapsed beside me and pulled her tip money from her apron. Sometimes, she caught me on a Sunday morning, a cup of coffee in her hand.

    A couple of boxes of dud matches, a bit of dirt by the curb and two or three of your newest Hot Wheels and an afternoon was never long enough.

    Wooden cabins could be built with dud matches, Roads could be constructed. Ranches with Corrals could appear out of nowhere. It didn't matter that the Seventh Cavalry were the good guys, with the German army, as always, being the baddies; a few of Robin Hood's Merry Men making up the shortfall.

    It didn't matter that the Germans had a Confederate cannon, or that the British army were using a Morris Minor for a tank; somehow it all fell into place with the dud matches and Granny Kay was my only supplier.

    Almost as if she had expected my request, Granny Kay turned with a toothless smile and produced three small boxes in the palm of an almost skeletal hand.

    I will," I replied, picking each box carefully from the old woman's hand. She leaned forward then, her double stringed necklace of blue and green glass rasping in front of my face.

    Granny Kay sat back, nodding knowingly even before I had answered. Her ancient mouth opened with a silent chuckle.

    Leaning forward once more, the necklace rasping in front of my sweater, Granny Kay relayed information that even PC Quigley ought not to know, "You were picking brambles in the quarry!

    I could feel my face redden, even before Granny Kay had rested her old back against the wooden chair. The quarry was a forbidden place, a place mum had often told us to keep away from -- so heaven help us.

    One step too far and over you would go into Dead Man's Pool. Dead Man's Pool was a deep, dark body of stagnant water at the foot of the sheer cliff face.

    Not to mock Granny Kay's warning, but just then I thought of how Me and Wiggy and Sticks had often leaned over the edge of the three hundred foot quarry, launching spits onto the skeletal remains of sheep that had not been as careful as us.

    Sticks wiped his nose on the cuff of his sweater, as if to affirm the statement that followed. Granny Kay was waiting for an answer.

    Turning from the window I said, "But I wasn't alone. They followed again as I moved my eyes back to hers.

    Not that I'd ever utter what thoughts ran through my head, but Granny Kay's eyes were faster than the eyes of Jesus on mum's bedroom wall.

    The rose made a kissing sound and Granny Kay said, "Do you like to pick brambles, Peter? Granny Kay nodded knowingly, the smiling lips drawn into her toothless jowls.

    Mum once made jam with rhubarb, but I don't think I've ever seen a rhubarb pie. At that, Granny Kay rose from the chair, the string knit shawl slipping from her back as she reached and shut off the oven.

    I followed Granny Kay out of the house, my own two feet stomping on slab after slab, crack after crack in perfect unison to the big blue slippers under the old red coat, lavender and mothballs.

    And swing your arms while you're at it. My heavens, what a boy! We moved quickly along Wallace Street, stopping only a time or two for Granny Kay to have a cheery hello to what she called some of her fellow old fogies.

    A chortle of laughter to old Mr. Kelly, a promise of tea and a chat to Hazel Joyce and we'd resume our steady pace. I wouldn't say I had a hard time keeping up with her, but Granny Kay managed to have me take a few big steps as we rounded into the Terraced houses of Castle Lane.

    Towards the end of the path stood an old man in brown trousers, a white shirt and, strangely enough, an orange sleeveless cardigan. I knew him, of course.

    Everyone knew Hobo Hobson. Not for any particularly bad reason though. It was just that, unlike Granny Kay, Hobo was often seen in some of the oddest places.

    It was not unusual to bump into him at the sandpits or strolling in gypsy's park. Pretty strange, really, for someone to be there and not have a dog to walk.

    It all made sense though, when Sticks informed us that his dad says old Hobson was a certified tinker. Right now, Hobo Hobson was hoeing between the flowers, the shiny silver blade turning over dirt that looked like black sawdust.

    Have a great weekend and a happy Valentine's Day. Post a Comment. Saturday, February 11, Grandma Stories. After putting her grandchildren to bed, a grandmother changed into old slacks and a droopy blouse and proceeded to wash her hair.

    As she heard the children getting more and more rambunctious, her patience grew thin. At last she threw a towel around her head and stormed into their room, putting them back to bed with stern warnings.

    A mother was telling her little girl what her own childhood was like: "We used to skate outside on a pond. I had a swing made from a tire; it hung from a tree in our front yard.

    We rode our pony. We picked wild raspberries in the woods. At last she said, "I sure wish I'd gotten to know you sooner! My grandson was visiting one day when he asked, "Grandma, do you know how you and God are alike?

    A little girl was diligently pounding away on her father's word processor. She told him she was writing a story. I didn't know if my granddaughter had learned her colors yet, so I decided to test her.

    I would point out something and ask what color it was. She would tell me, and always she was correct. But it was fun for me, so I continued.

    At last she headed for the door, saying sagely, "Grandma, I think you should try to figure out some of these yourself!

    Our five-year-old son couldn't wait to tell his father about the movie we had watched on television, "20, Leagues Under the Sea.

    In the middle of the telling, my husband interrupted Mark, "What caused the submarine to sink?

    When my grandson, Billy, and I entered our vacation cabin, we kept the lights off until we were inside to keep from attracting pesky insects.

    Still, a few fireflies followed us in. Noticing them before I did, Billy whispered, "It's no use, Grandpa. The mosquitoes are coming after us with flashlights.

    When my grandson asked me how old I was, I teasingly replied, "I'm not sure. Subject: Children's Logic: "Give me a sentence about a public servant,"said a teacher.

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    Ranches with Corrals could appear out of nowhere. It didn't matter that the Seventh Cavalry were the good guys, with the German army, as always, being the baddies; a few of Robin Hood's Merry Men making up the shortfall.

    It didn't matter that the Germans had a Confederate cannon, or that the British army were using a Morris Minor for a tank; somehow it all fell into place with the dud matches and Granny Kay was my only supplier.

    Almost as if she had expected my request, Granny Kay turned with a toothless smile and produced three small boxes in the palm of an almost skeletal hand.

    I will," I replied, picking each box carefully from the old woman's hand. She leaned forward then, her double stringed necklace of blue and green glass rasping in front of my face.

    Granny Kay sat back, nodding knowingly even before I had answered. Her ancient mouth opened with a silent chuckle. Leaning forward once more, the necklace rasping in front of my sweater, Granny Kay relayed information that even PC Quigley ought not to know, "You were picking brambles in the quarry!

    I could feel my face redden, even before Granny Kay had rested her old back against the wooden chair. The quarry was a forbidden place, a place mum had often told us to keep away from -- so heaven help us.

    One step too far and over you would go into Dead Man's Pool. Dead Man's Pool was a deep, dark body of stagnant water at the foot of the sheer cliff face.

    Not to mock Granny Kay's warning, but just then I thought of how Me and Wiggy and Sticks had often leaned over the edge of the three hundred foot quarry, launching spits onto the skeletal remains of sheep that had not been as careful as us.

    Sticks wiped his nose on the cuff of his sweater, as if to affirm the statement that followed. Granny Kay was waiting for an answer.

    Turning from the window I said, "But I wasn't alone. They followed again as I moved my eyes back to hers. Not that I'd ever utter what thoughts ran through my head, but Granny Kay's eyes were faster than the eyes of Jesus on mum's bedroom wall.

    The rose made a kissing sound and Granny Kay said, "Do you like to pick brambles, Peter? Granny Kay nodded knowingly, the smiling lips drawn into her toothless jowls.

    Mum once made jam with rhubarb, but I don't think I've ever seen a rhubarb pie. At that, Granny Kay rose from the chair, the string knit shawl slipping from her back as she reached and shut off the oven.

    I followed Granny Kay out of the house, my own two feet stomping on slab after slab, crack after crack in perfect unison to the big blue slippers under the old red coat, lavender and mothballs.

    And swing your arms while you're at it. My heavens, what a boy! We moved quickly along Wallace Street, stopping only a time or two for Granny Kay to have a cheery hello to what she called some of her fellow old fogies.

    A chortle of laughter to old Mr. Kelly, a promise of tea and a chat to Hazel Joyce and we'd resume our steady pace. I wouldn't say I had a hard time keeping up with her, but Granny Kay managed to have me take a few big steps as we rounded into the Terraced houses of Castle Lane.

    Towards the end of the path stood an old man in brown trousers, a white shirt and, strangely enough, an orange sleeveless cardigan.

    I knew him, of course. Everyone knew Hobo Hobson. Not for any particularly bad reason though. It was just that, unlike Granny Kay, Hobo was often seen in some of the oddest places.

    It was not unusual to bump into him at the sandpits or strolling in gypsy's park. Pretty strange, really, for someone to be there and not have a dog to walk.

    It all made sense though, when Sticks informed us that his dad says old Hobson was a certified tinker. Right now, Hobo Hobson was hoeing between the flowers, the shiny silver blade turning over dirt that looked like black sawdust.

    He turned as the latch on the swinging gate chinked back into place. Have you went and adopted a wee laddie? My grandmother had quit drinking, but she took long pulls from that bottle before bed.

    I spent the next four years sleeping on the floor and growing to hate her. I had dreams of being a writer.

    You came in this house last night glowing like a lightning bug. For my sixteenth birthday my mother and grandmother promised me a sleepover. When the day finally came, I raced home and flung open the door only to find her sitting on the bed.

    She hovered on the outskirts of the party, entering the bedroom because she had forgotten something. At one point, she stumbled into our bathroom.

    Her Benadryl had worked its magic because she proceeded to urinate with the force of a Thoroughbred. At school the next day, word spread about my crazy grandmother.

    When I sat down at lunch, my friends picked up their trays and moved to a new table. For the next two weeks, I secretly laughed every time she brushed her teeth.

    My grandmother bought a trailer and moved out shortly before I turned eighteen. I celebrated by sleeping naked in a new set of bed sheets, but soon I found I was behaving like her.

    Doing laundry meant dousing a t-shirt in perfume and popping it in the dryer. I leave food containers just lying out. Meanwhile, my grandmother was leaving us.

    She swore to get more exercise, to eat better, to stop smoking. The oxygen tank hissed as she drew breath from the cord looped over her ears.

    The last time we spoke was on my twenty-sixth birthday. Three months later, my grandmother was found dead in her mobile home.

    While we waited for the attendants to take her body, my brother sat on the ground picking at his cuticles, his hat pulled low.

    My mother walked in slow circles. I bowed my head so my hair covered my eyes. She placed her hand on the door knob then took it off before turning back to me.

    She hates to be cold. I touched everything with my fingertips, ashamed that even now I was squeamish around her things. Oh, I'm disappointed!!! Here I thought you were as old as God.

    These are too funny. My brother came up with several when he was little, so did Nyssa. Loved the one by your granddaughter. Have a good weekend, try to get a little rest in between all those roses.

    I loved the underwear one and the 20, leaks but try a I might I don't get the 'soldiers in my cup.

    I don't know if these are true or not, but they well could be. You know, the old "out of the mouths of babes" trick. Great stories for a snowy night.

    I also loved your family pictures and pictues of all the flower arrangements. You'll be in my thoughts and prayers during Valentine's Day.

    I know you will be in demand just from looking at your arrangements. Oh, Michele sent me and she knows you'll be busy too!

    BTW, sometimes when I am coming by here I type "kenju" in the address bar by mistake. I always get the same page in Japanese.

    I wonder what it's about? Thanks so much for posting them. They sure brightened the day for a lot of us. Have a great weekend and a happy Valentine's Day.

    Post a Comment. Saturday, February 11, Grandma Stories. After putting her grandchildren to bed, a grandmother changed into old slacks and a droopy blouse and proceeded to wash her hair.

    As she heard the children getting more and more rambunctious, her patience grew thin. At last she threw a towel around her head and stormed into their room, putting them back to bed with stern warnings.

    A mother was telling her little girl what her own childhood was like: "We used to skate outside on a pond. I had a swing made from a tire; it hung from a tree in our front yard.

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