Today’s Friday, and not just any Friday, the Friday before a holiday weekend.  For many, that means that today is unofficially a holiday too.

In other words, anything I say today will more likely be read by the rats and cockroaches skittering over sticky keyboards (not yours, mind you) than real, live human beings.

Still, I want to share a story.  A story about what I remember of Memorial Day growing up.  Because my parents’ anniversary is May 30th, my brother and I were usually shipped off to spend the holiday at my mom’s mom’s house, who we call G. Zoe.  She got that name because I couldn’t say “granny” when I was little and was smart enough to know “granny” started with “G.”  Okay, obviously not, but someone apparently prompted me to call her “G. Zoe” instead of the harder “Granny Zoe.”

I loved those long weekends visiting G. Zoe.  It was just me, my brother, and our cousin Ben hanging out in a house full of treasures from years gone by.  Ben’s between my brother, Riley, and I in age (and Riley and I are only 19 months apart), so there was much fun to be had.

I remember digging around in the backyard, finding bits of fishing gear from my mom’s childhood (or earlier) in the dirt of what was once the floor of a shed.  I remember sitting on that small town front porch next to hens and chicks with a notebook in hand, tallying the number of cars that drive by in each color, waving at the strangers inside.  I remember sitting around the kitchen table, eating toast made with a smiley face imprint.

I could go on, naming a dozen other memories from those weekends with G. Zoe.  I’m thankful for those tastes of life in a smaller town.  But more importantly, I’m thankful for having those precious memories with 3 grandparents, 3 grandparents that I still make memories with today.  Being the oldest granddaughter definitely has its perks.