In November, I took my eight-year-old granddaughter out for pizza, just she and I. It was her birthday. We sat in a booth drinking our beverages and waiting on our pies. She talked. I listened. She had a lot to say and I was keeping up with the continually changing subjects.Then she stopped talking and her eyes grew large. “Is there gum under the table?” Her nose crinkled.
“I don’t know, but DON’T touch under the table.” My voice came out with a desperate quality to it. Then I laughed.“I WOULDN’T,” she squealed, giggling. “That would be disgusting.”
I laughed again. She matched it.We both stared at each other saying—nothing because we were both thinking something. There was a possibility that used gum was stuck under the table where we sat.
(I'll be over at Wrote by Rote, on Saturday, where I "wrote" about recording family history.)