This weekend was amazing! Elevation gave the interns a break last week. We weren't supposed to show up until Friday. However, they graciously also gave me Friday off so that I could attend my Great-Grandfather's 95th birthday party on Saturday. Maybe it doesn't sound like the average college girl's idea of a great party, but I definitely looked forward to it. Like any southern family, parties call for lots of cooking. My mom hit the kitchen mixing up Deviled eggs and cooking corn on the cob. She had planned to make cookies, so I took over (since desserts are my favorite) and began baking peanutbutter-chocolatechip cookies. But my friends called during the second batch to invite me out, so I handed the responsibility back to my mom, for my convenience. Coincidentally, the last few batches wound up very burnt. (This is why God placed baking on my heart, and cooking on my mother's.)
We arrived at the fellowship hall a few minutes late, but just in time to proudly lay our dishes on the table in front of the hungry line of people. Just as one of my aunts was beginning to serve my grandpa his birthday dinner, my mom and I noticed the table stacked with gifts. We both nodded in knowing that Papa TB's card was left behind on our kitchen counter. At that moment, I realized that this incident would make up for the irresponsibility of neglecting the cookies. I told her I would retrieve the glorious card and make her proud.
I had forgotten that she had driven her "granny car" to the party. I had also forgotten that she was so much taller than me, but I told myself that it was only a five-minute drive and raced her big Buick Le Sabre with my right foot barely reaching the accelerator, my arms stretched all the way to the steering wheel with the seat leaned back ghetto-style and the rear view mirror showing the ceiling. I did not even change the radio station for fear that I would not be able to reach that knob either.
When I got home, the forgotten card was lying on the counter, unsigned, without any money, and had been not-so-carefully placed in a puddle of pickle juice. I scavenged for a pen, scribbled the family's names, scrounged for some cash, and held the damp card against the air conditioning vent the whole way back in the Ghetto Granny Mobile.
Hopefully, dispite the green tint and winkles in the birthday card, this little adventure made up for leaving my mother alone with the oven.
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