Gramma's asides to herself while flipping through the grocery store advertisments: "Organic peanut butter? Now how good can that be?"
A few minutes later: "'Delicious organic strawberry preserves.' How more organic can you get? They already come from the ground."
It's the little things, folks. She makes me giggle. In addition to getting a laugh from the priceless gems that either of my grandparents utter on any given occasion, by staying with them, I'm also in danger of turning into a toasted deviled egg sandwich that pees Cheerwine; a soda that I'm convinced is the nectar of the gods. For those of you unfamiliar with the glorious south, if Dr. Pepper and Cherry Coke got married and had little soda babies, they'd all be called Cheerwine. This stuff is so addictive that several of Grampa's brothers who no longer inhabit southern North Carolina request/demand through telephone lines that he bring cases of it down with him to the annual family reunion. I'm not much better myself as it's the one staple I require in any care package. I don't think soda is supposed to be shipped through the mail, but I think Gramma and Grampa get a kick out of surrounding the cans with bubble wrap and packets of grits so that the postmaster can't hear the liquid slosh when Grampa hands the package over the counter. They always ask if there's anything liquid or perishable in them. He leans all nonchalant on the counter and lies. I mean, everybody needs a little clandestine spy activity in their life, and in Gaston County, there just isn't much opportunity for that. They take it where they can.
In conclusion, despite the numerous moments of being bored out of my skull here, I am consoled by an unlimited supply of Cheerwine. And deviled egg sandwiches. The world isn't all bad.
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