I came home from Austin last week. Another Texas trip visiting my sister, and another one where we saw Blink-182 perform.While the show was great, and checking out the bars 6th Street made for a memorable experience, my last day was frustrating. We left the hotel in Austin and got on the road, headed for Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport around 11 a.m. My flight, Flight 2496, was set for 4:30 p.m. We should have been there in plenty of time.
She couldn’t stop sweating. And she was hungry. So after A Day to Remember had finished playing its rousing set, replete with T-shirt guns and flying toilet paper, we thought it might be a good time to step outside to the concourse area and grab pizza, or a pretzel. We chose pizza.
His deep, throaty words of encouragement always came so easily.
“Attaboy, B.H.! … That’s the way … Way to go.”
Shot after shot in the backyard, my grandpa’s praise kept coming as he passed back my basketball. Sometimes I wanted him to be there, but other times my preference was to be left alone.
Originally written in 2012 on another blog site, after the passing of my grandma.
There are few people I’ve had a harder time figuring out in my life than my grandmother. A good example of this were some of the last words she ever spoke. She had a small stroke (that’s what we’re calling it) on a Monday night last month in her recliner. I called 911 and we got her to the Emergency Room, where she spent the night. The next evening she was cleared to come home. I came and got her, and as we were driving home I asked her if she was scared when she was having the stroke. Predictably, she didn’t answer the question.