Marie Smysor Watson
story - 100 words
HEY, Y'ALL! I'll be off for the next two weeks on a road trip with my dad, making tracks across a few national parks and hopefully collecting ideas for some new stories. See you back here in June...
Yep, I know, it's lucky, lucky to reach middle-age and still have a grandparent living. Luckier still that her mind is as sharp as it was when she was my age. My Gramma Grace Smysor has always been the consummate storyteller, mostly because she's lived a varied and interesting life - and a very long one too, that certainly helps, although as she says, "It's hard to be the keeper of the memories sometimes." One of my prize-winning short stories - read here -was heavily based on one that she told me time and time again when I was young. Every time I visit, I come away with new tales or have nuances from old ones revealed to me. No story is ever the same twice which is the point, I think? So my deepest thanks, Gramma, for the words...
Tell me a story, Gramma.
Yesterday, in her apartment. Her voice, weary from ninety-seven years of use. Still, the stories remain constant.
A step-niece whose real father robbed banks - a swell guy nevertheless. A paralegal sister-in-law who kited checks. A gullible cousin fed a manure filled egg for asking too many questions. Five older brothers, one who killed a man in a fight, none who lived to be old men. My father, her most exasperating child.
You could never get enough stories, she laughs.
What else do we leave behind? I ask.
Unfailingly, she has a story for that too.
Grace Lorraine DeWitt Smysor, February 2021 (note her mug)