Remembering Gramma

I wrote a true account of a bear , running out of a cave, and straight after Bal and I. Before ever posting it on my blog, before I knew what a blog was, I emailed it to my family.

A few days later I call my Gramma. “Did you like the story I emailed you?”

“No!” is her blunt reply.

“Are you trying to give me a heart-attack?” she questions. And while she doesn’t say anything this time, I know she is questioning my inappropriate lifestyle. A life of spelunking, backpacking alone, and living downtown in ‘the big city’. I am almost 30 and I do not cook. I am not married. I enter elevators. These are things she does not approve of.

“No Gramma, I didn’t realize a funny account of a bear coming after Bal and I, that happened years ago, would give you a heart attack.”

“Well, as soon as I saw ‘Until I was thrown to the bears. Literally.’ I panicked. I had to go to the end of the email to make sure you were okay. Then I read the rest.”

There is an extended pause as I snort laugh.

“Nevermind that I sent you the email, you had to scroll to the end to make sure I was okay?!” I can barely contain myself.

“Yes. I was worried.”

“But the email came from me! You knew I was okay.”

“Well…” she stutters all flustered and then, ignoring the conversation entirely,

“So what are you making for dinner tonight?”

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