A year and a half ago, my grandparents moved from the house they had been living in for more years than I can remember and went into a development house a couple of towns over. The old house was this amazing sprawling one story creation that is a little difficult to describe. I once drew it out on a napkin for Tim and finally took him there a couple of years later when I heard that they would be moving. I will describe this much: The immense backyard was bordered by a stream, complete with a dock that was perfect to sit and read on. The backyard did have the downside of a certain spot by the river where one would be inevitably attacked by a swarm of bugs (which was hilarious to see if you happened to be looking out the window), but it still remained one of my favorite places to be. Last week was the first time I've visited New Jersey without being in that house, and the experience was a little odd for me.
Like I said, they moved into a development complete with nauseating street names. Even if you can overlook the cookie cutter shape of a development community, it's difficult to get around the lame street names these places always have. Babbling Brook At Noon in Spring Lane. Happy Valley of the Blades of Grass Court. The only way I could get behind living in a development is if the street names had a fun theme, like parts of the body. If my house was on Xiphoid Process Drive, I would be a happy girl.
But I digress. For all of my whining, their new place is actually quite beautiful and does have a spacious backyard (actually, spacious describes this entire place to a tee). And their basement still smells like their basement, which gives off this security blanket sensation. I have no clue what causes this scent, but they carry it with them when they visit here as well, and you always breathe in and say "It smells like New Jersey".
I wish I had recorded some of the conversations with my grandfather, because nothing I say will truly paint a picture of what it's like to talk with him. I love my grandfather, but he (a) never met a story he didn't have a related story for, (b) never met a silence that he didn't like, even if this means filling the lull with humming or whistling, and (c) often has no regard to what information is appropriate to share or not. Examples for (c) include but are not limited to recounting his inability to go to the bathroom to a near stranger and telling us that we could go upstairs and have at it if we wanted (to which we declined and awkwardly ate celery instead).
We went to the beach on Friday, which was fairly uneventful and actually included no swimming because it was too cold to do so. However, it was nice to just sit on the beach and read without having to make excuses that I shouldn't be relaxing because I have too much to do. Tim and I also wandered around the neighborhood and found several bunnies (one of which was adorably tiny), so that was pretty much a winning experience for me, save a few mosquito bites.
On Saturday, we drove down to my Aunt Jean's (my grandmother's sister; she's the wife of my Uncle Hak who passed away back in February). She lives in a cabin in the woods approximately 45 minutes away from my grandparent's house. Normally this wouldn't be a problem, but (1) it involves the Garden State Parkway, (2) my grandfather insisted on driving, and (3) there was a traffic jam. Driving with my grandfather is bad enough on a normal day because he has an obsession with braking approximately two minutes whether it is warranted or not, has little awareness of anyone else who might be on the road, and most definitely does not understand the concept of right of way. So as a result, we spent a good half hour jerking around the backseat every time my grandpa thought he could move an inch. Nausea abounds.
Two hours later, we made it to my aunt's and we had a nice afternoon visiting with her and her friend Jeff (the recipient of the aforementioned bathroom to strangers story) who was helping her get my uncle's paintings cleaned for the memorial gathering she's having for Hak this weekend. Her home is completely amazing, filled with her art (pottery, photography) and his. It was nice to see it again and even nicer to visit with Jean, even if she had woken me up by calling my cell phone at 7:15 that morning. Luckily for all parties involved, my grandpa accepted Tim's offer to drive, and Tim drove for a very smooth 45 minutes. If I didn't love him already, I would have fallen in love with him for that.
On Sunday we stayed for church and left right afterwards. Naturally, my IBS chose to act up like a sullen teenager approximately five minutes before the service started and didn't want to respond to any of my pharmaceutical weapons. So I spent the first few hours of our drive home half zonked, crampy and completely afraid to eat or drink anything. It eventually went down a little, but I didn't eat anything aside from pretzels until we were about twenty minutes away from home (bless you, Red Robin). Pennsylvania is still a long ass state to drive across, just in case you were wondering.
So there's our trip in a very large nutshell. I may have complained a lot in there, but it really was nice. I may be off the writing grid for a few days here because I'm going to a concert Tim's playing in tomorrow night, and Saturday is crammed with a wedding (Alexis and Jeff's) and a funeral (a very nice man who went to Tim's church). More on that later.
