Well, That's Awkward...

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So the Muse gave me an idea for a post, sounded excellent. I was going to call it "Roots" (no Tuna, Kunta Kinte doesn't play a role, nor is it about carrots, parsnips, or other root vegetables), it would be a tale of how I live in Little Rhody, but I'm not from here, etc., etc. Seems though that I had already written a similar post three years ago, here.

Then I had the thought of presenting that selfsame post as a rerun. But, I have resolved to only do reruns on Sunday. Today, for those without access to any sources of information, ain't Sunday. Unless you're reading this in the indeterminate future, where it might be Sunday. So if you're reading this, and it is Sunday, stop. Read it tomorrow. (That last bit is for people in the future, any day which is not Tuesday, 29 August 2017. Now if you're reading this in the past, cool. How did you do that and what are next week's winning lottery numbers?)

Anyhoo. So great idea, but I've already done it. Which is something that happens with increasing age. You tell the same stories over and over again. (Which is particularly annoying if you don't have many stories to begin with.) The progeny will often interrupt one of my stories with, "Dad, we've heard that story before..."

Moi: "But it's an excellent story."

Progeny: "Not really Dad..."

Speaking of stories...

When I retired from the Air Force we all lived with my parents for a couple of months while I searched for gainful employment. One day, shortly after arriving in New Hampshire, The Missus Herself and I went up the road to visit with my maternal grandmother and her "boyfriend." (Dude was in his eighties which is why boyfriend is in quotes. Before you get the wrong idea, my grandfather had passed away something like 25 years before then, so it ain't like Gram was stepping out or anything... But I digress.)

Gram: "So Mel, do you remember Chris and his wife?"

(If you gather that Mel wasn't quite all there, you're spot on. Not nuts or senile or anything, he just told the same stories over and over, and... Oh, wait. Never mind.)

Mel: "Of course I do. How have you been?"

Your Humble Scribe: "I'm doing well Mel, we just got back from Germany."

Mel: "I was in Italy during the war."

YHS: "I know Mel, you've told me a few stories of those days."

Mel: "So were you in Germany when the Nazis surrendered?"

YHS: "Yes, Mel. I killed Hitler. OW!!" (The "ow" is because the love of my life kicked me in the shin, quite hard I might add, when I mentioned that I had killed Hitler. And yes, I received the "you're an idiot" look. Actually it was the industrial strength, don't try this at home, "you're an idiot" look.)

And yes, my grandmother was also not pleased that I was having a bit of fun with her beau.

Speaking of Mel. The Nuke is a very clever and perceptive lass, always has been. When she first went up to her great-grandmother's house after we retired, she knew about Mel but thought that he didn't live at Great Gram's place. (He did, off and on. He had his own place, but, well, come on, do I really need to explain that...)

She saw a room with a small desk and a couch and on the door it was labeled "Mel's Room," with labeling tape. (Odd now that I think of it. Do most 80-somethings label the rooms in their abodes? Something to consider...)

The Nuke asked her Great Gram, "Why does Mel have a room in your house?"

Great Gram: "That's where Mel sleeps when he stays over night."

The Nuke: "How come there's no bed in that room?"

Great Gram: "..."

Great Gram: "Want cookies?"

 The Nuke and The WSO: "YAY!! Cookies!!"

Later on though, The Nuke asked me that very same question as to the lack of a bed in "Mel's Room."

YHS: "Um, um, maybe Mel likes sleeping on the floor. I mean he was in the Army in Italy during the war and..."

The Nuke: "I'm asking Mom."

Damn Muse is in the other room giggling. She's making me pay for those few days off when I wasn't returning her calls.