Short poem.

These are my memories of growing up with my grandparents. My Gram has passed and my Pap is still with us but ready to go home.

Sunday deliveries can sometimes be, you know, remarkable.

A day at Grandma’s house.

Poem.

How do I go on living with out her was still so young. she was only 66.

Fireworks can be lovely, but practical jokes are not much fun.

To all of those rebel Nana’s who raised their rebel daughters.

A series of westerns about Gram Stien.