Thermodynamics meets grandma's common sense

My grandmother informed me the other day that she doesn't like to keep her milk on the refrigerator door. Ok, I accept the preference without question. It is, after all, her milk and her fridge. She goes on to explain that the milk sours faster when it is on the door. Ok, thinks I, this is a possibility. Maybe swinging out to room temp instead of tucked into its cold cocoon could raise the temperature to change its shelf life. Seems far fetched but I'll take it. Then she elaborates.
"You see, when the milk is on the door it gets agitated a lot more. Like churning butter, it turns lumpy and sour before I even get time to drink it all and then I end up throwing out the last of the quart."
Agitation at work, is it? Not one to dispute just for the sake of being right, I remind myself that whatever her reasoning- it is still her milk and it is still her fridge.
Upon inspection, however, it becomes apparent that the logic that got us here was not going to hold water...or even lumpy milk. I stick my finger into the gap between fridge and door and wiggle it around. "Maybe this is what is ruining the milk." With that she studies the door and agrees and a quandary enters the room. "I wonder what we could do to fix this." Of course this is we in the royal sense. I suggest, "well, if you push the door a little harder when you close it, should do the trick. See?" she looks at me like I have suggested buying a new house for the sake of a new refrigerator.
So now I follow her though the kitchen several times a day to push the door that last half inch.
You can bring the mountain to Muhammad, but if Muhammad don't want to admit you're right, you cannot make Muhammed close the darn fridge.

Driving

The old joke goes, "When i die, I want to go peacefully in my sleep like Grandpa did. Not screaming in terror like the other people in his car!"
Well as anyone with an aging relative knows, driving is a huge point of contention. Aging reflexes slow, attention span shortens, fear of death wanes whatever the reason that causes the elderly to change their driving styles it can be truly terrifying for those along for the ride. As I write this I am in fact in mortal peril. Grandma is driving and I have Metallica playing on the radio just quieter than her hearing will discern any of the lyrics. We are on the highway and it seems that all lanes are now fair game. She brakes when she feels she has started to go a little too fast downhill. Pity to the minivan cruising behind us when grandma suddenly decelerates from 87 to 70 in the space of a few seconds. My seatbelt is welcome company. Even more confusing than the abrupt braking is the acceleration that follows. Brake, coast, speed up only to brake again, repeat. We are now pushing 90 and I am sorry to anyone in my life I have not made amends to.
The problem is, when do you put your foot down and say you may not drive with me in the car anymore vs. you may not drive period. While my concern extends to the other people on the road, it is mainly centered around my own well being.
I will stop a drunk friend from driving but I cannot stop every drunk. Should I stop my grandmother from driving for much the same reason? Part of me says respect your elders and respect her decisions as those of any adult to direct their own life, part of me says call the state police and get me out of here!

What tha, what?

Grandma just kicked it into high gear! I mentioned that the summer is already a month gone and all of a sudden she's hauling things out! We have a trash bag, people!!!

Edit 6/11/21 : That was short lived. That pace kept up for exactly one day. And the trash bag is still exactly where she left it. Mental note- I need to take that out tomorrow.

Going to be smothered by genealogy

Oh god!!! She's discovered the "you may know..." panel of Facebook. If you don't hear from me ever again it is because my head has exploded with family history. Only takes one name to set her off running!

Family from nowhere

So just as I'm sitting through another one of grandmas sagas, trying for dear life to sift through the irrelevant bits to the heart of her story, I get a message from a stranger on Facebook. Donkers- seems to me a familiar name, so I ask grandma. No, she says, "that doesn't sound like anyone I know." so I hesitatingly accept the friend request and poke through this persons profile. His siblings are...? His mothers name was...? And I read a few other clues that I thought might be helpful and all of a sudden she perks up and says, "oh! That must be so and so's son! He was cousin of- and he was the son of-!" the list goes on for 10 minutes! So I write back to this stranger and confirm the pedigree and presto changeo, he is family now. I think that timely connection has grown grandmas interest in Facebook, but how many hours will it take to show her the ropes again?

First box!

So at dinner I brought up the subject of actually starting to work on the project I came here to do and grandma said she was just about finished working for the day. Not wanting to push an old lady beyond her endurance, I said that's fine and I'll just spend the evening applying for jobs. Well that changes the game! We went through a box of knick knacks left from my late great aunt years before she died. Apparently it has resides in grandmas closet since then. Of course, by the time we got through it, she decided to keep the box and all of its contents just in case someone in her family wants it. Arrgghhhh! Now the box is in the middle of her room instead of the closet.

Conservative opinions abound

Her bookshelf which is visible from her bed teems with authors names which, admittedly I have not read, but nonetheless set my liberal sensibilities on edge. Titles like "Liberal Fascism" and authors like "Glenn Beck" make me wonder how many political arguments I am currently dodging and how many are yet to pop over the horizon and thoroughly scare the shit out of me.

Guilt trip to Peoria.

So my grandma, road warrior that she is, makes an annual pilgrimage to Peoria Illinois for her Rosenbohm family reunion. Now I might be able to cobble together some of the genealogy she has in her brain, but I could only give you shades of a story without names, really. Long story short this family reunion has been going on for ages and all of us grand kids were shuttled to Illinois at some point in our lives with varying degrees of willingness. I've been told that I went a couple of times, but the sum total of my memories of that family reunion are of a slice of cherry pie and the three legged dog I palled around with all day while I was "supposed" to be getting to know my very distant cousins (whom I would never get to see again unless I drove back to Illinois! Great incentive to build relationships, eh?)

Well this year , like any other year, grandma starts guilting the family about missing the family reunion. "Gee," she says with a great sigh, "I so very badly want to go see [insert familial name here]. It may be my last chance to go and I just can't convince a single member of my own family to muster the interest in knowing their relations. I have, must be almost 40 people on my own family tree including grandkids and great grandkids, and not one of them will ride with me to Peoria." To this I reply, "Seems to me that 40 people makes a family reunion! I know last year we had more than 20 of them right here in your living room. Not many of us have ties to Illinois (correctly: none of us do) but we all have memories from right here in Morgantown. Bet you could convince our family to come here and visit with one another." "That's not the same." says she. It is becoming clear to me, she wants an excuse to spend an entire week showing off her brood to the families in Illinois, she will tell and retell our life stories until the subject of said tale sits rapt in her story, wishing his own life actually resembled the tale grandma spins for me. Suddenly every building we exit was burning and every minor award was noticed by the entire state and the story goes on. I have done the same this summer already, sat in another room listening to grandma retell the story of our day. By my memory, we scooted around some sweaters and vacuumed a bit before playing cribbage. By her account we have moved furniture to the garage in preparation for the church yard sale and we have taken her winter wardrobe out of the closet to make room for the summer wardrobe and we've gone through old papers in our effort to "downsize her house." I wish I could find this alternate reality she lives in.

Memory is a funny thing

How come grandma struggles to find the word kale, but can remember the first and middle name of every cousin anyone has EVER had for the last century and a half?!?

Pink pajamas

I wear my pink pajamas in the summer when it's hot.
And I wear my flannel nightie in the winter when it's not.
And sometimes in the springtime and sometimes in the fall I jump between the sheets with nothing on at all!

Edit: new verses learned from Aunt

Glory, glory what's it to ya?
Glory, glory what's it to ya?
Glory, glory what's it to ya?
With nothing on at alllll!

I can't make this shit up

So let me catch you up. I broke my leg in the early spring while skiing and spent the first 6 weeks at home resting. My sanity was maintained by many friends willing to put up with waiting for my gimpy self to catch up. My grandmother had spent the whole winter with her daughter in South Carolina with several startling difficulties that set back her return to West Virginia. I figured that since she was struggling a little on her own and I was struggling a little on my own that together we'd almost be a functioning human. So I came to Morgantown with the intention of keeping my grandma company at her home and helping out where I can. I did not expect the madness that would ensue. It was awkward at first because I've never really visited my grandmother for more than a few days unless other family was around or there were other distractions. This visit, neither of us are venturing too far from the house and so a little bit of cabin fever naturally sets in. We played Scrabble and eventually moved on to Cribbage to fill the hours. Now, she is hard of hearing and I have a short attention span for meandering stories. So I've been trying to enunciate everything while looking directly at her and keep reminding myself that that noise I keep hearing is the story she's been telling for the last 45 minutes. PAY ATTENTION! So I was feeling a bit batty until just yesterday when Grandma cussed in the car! That brought my attention back and suddenly I see the absolutely absurd humor in this odd couple we make and the awkward exchanges we share. I'm a short-cut taking, feminist, democrat with communist leanings and she is a formal person who insists upon serving spoons even for the most informal meals, a dyed in the wool conservative and stubborn to boot. Almost as stubborn as I am. I decided that I must start writing some of these exchanges down, and hopefully that is what follows in this blog.