While we were up north we stayed at Granny Goose’s house, which is what my boys have affectionately called my mom’s mom since they have been able to speak. It all started because my mom was asking my grandma what she wanted to be called by my kids (since “grandma” was out, according to my mom, even though she’s not even “grandma.” She’s “Maw,” which is strikingly close to Mama, and kinda not cool when you’re a first time mom, but whatev. Another post for another day perhaps.)
Anywho, my grandma said, “I don’t care what they call me. They can call me Granny Goose if they want.” I think she was joking by I was all over that like white on rice, and it stuck.
Granny Goose she is.
So, before we left to drive back home, we took a picture of the four generations.
So cute, but does my thyroid look a little swollen? Hmmmmm…
And just in case you thought crazy only ran on my dad’s side of the family, you would be wrong.
“Man, I’ve been needing a shelf for my desk.”
“Here, Anne (that’s my grandma) we’ll just prop it up with cinder blocks.”
“Genius, Pete! (That’s my grandpa.)”
“Anything to save a buck, dear.”
Everyone keeps slug and snail killer pellets from the 1950’s in a box on a shelf in their office, right?