Most grandmas have a touch of the scallywag. ~Helen Thomson
I don’t recall exact conversations with Grandma Mable, but my memory carries snapshots of her.
Baking rolls in miniature pie tins in her kitchen. Fresh baked cookies being removed from the ancient oven. Sis and I would salivate while we waited for them to cool enough to sample the tasty treats.
Picnics took place on sweltering summer days in her yard, where flowers grew in abundance. I can still taste the sweetness of homemade lemonade.
I remember skipping stones with her while she whistled a broken tune. Mable’s would skip lively. Mine would sink. Seagulls would ascend at the disturbance.
100 words/Genre: Memoir
Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. Please be sure to go to her page and read the stories from other writers. We are a rather eclectic group. I welcome kudos and criticism. Bring it on.