ON THE WAY THERE Grandma gave me the silent treatment. I wouldn’t share a hotel room with her. And she hates to be alone.
We were driving across Illinois. In between moods Grandma and Dad would reminisce about sorghum breakfasts. I thought about how Dad grew up: the wood-burning stove, his parents’ divorce, the grandpa/father-figure who died when he was so little. He was only five or six.