Scotlandia

I am now enclosed inside a time warp with my grandparents in Scotland. They’re talking in the living room while I’m in the kitchen here, dwelling. I can hear my grandfather commenting negatively here and there, hollering about this and that. When he came in to grab something he asked me if I had a hair dryer and informed me I would get head rheumatics with wet hair. At the moment I can hear him going on about when people used to have their fires inside the houses and that they were often not very careful. This is a common theme for him, as most people never seem to have their heads on straight. I certainly don’t, for I left my camera on the living room coffee table the other night and someone could’ve broken in to get.

My Gran has a lovely way of telling a story, capped with a little giggle at the end. At the moment she’s recollecting how birds would build nests in the chimney causing the smoke to come inside. Granda compliments the story by talking about the unbelievable amount of tree parts and papers that the birds would manage to find and create their homes with, followed by Gran being reminiscent of how cozy the fire was. She has been making our stomachs feel quite cozy, inundating us with her apple tart, ice cream, meat, mashed potatoes, overcooked vegetables and toast loaded with butter and homemade marmalade. It’s a wonder how her blood pressure can be so healthy, I wonder if her veins are actually strengthened by all the strengthening fat that they receive.

In the way of food, Granda is now asking about the meal that we went out for last night. Apparently, they’ve been forever advertising about eating places in Glasgow. However, trying to explain Persian food is like trying to tell a fish about trees. My mom pursues it, trying to explain Naan, rice and the “creamy sauces” that they use.

“Get away!” says my Granda as my Grandma’s giggle pops the ceiling, “Did you like it?” he asks. His curiosity reminds me of all the things of the outside world that we should try to describe for them. The world has changed so much since they’ve walked around in it.

“Persian….” he says under his breath, allowing the words to slowing melt into his mind.

This is only a brief window of contemplation before the conversation meanders back to other depressing current events, including how people on the internet misuse information and you should certainly never give your personal information over the phone, as they’ve been told.

“The things they’re up to is terrible.” Gran almost gasps.

“Aye, and we don’t know the half of it Sarah… we don’t know the half of it…” Granda solemnly notes.

My grandparents really look stunning for their age, in their thick knitted sweaters always dressed properly for the day. My Gran still wears nylons under her woolen navy pants, though she has to cut them at the knee because half her leg is wrapped in gauze due to a cellulitis infection. She also makes sure to wear her little nylon socks over her wrapped feet. My Grandfather sits regally in his red Celtic suspenders with golden clasps, complementing the striped purple and navy polo t-shirt underneath and thick navy sweater overtop. He wears thick brown slippers, put up on a small soft green footstool as he does his crosswords and reads his books. Both have just the right amount of frailty and health that somehow bring a wise and happy presence. Though their bodies fail them a bit at times, their minds couldn’t be better, hanging on to the stubborn independent thinking that has carried them on for so many years. As a perfect example of this, I can hear my mother yell in the kitchen:

“WE’RE NOT TALKING LOW. YOU’RE GOING DEAF.”

We all can endure their independence with a little humor, satisfied that they are the same as they always have been though accumulated years that are more than twice my lifetime. They continue to exercise their minds with much reading and when we are stumped about some piece of history we can certainly ask my grandfather, who will give us a wonderful explanation of the particulars of the situation.

Now I see that the snowflakes have arrived after much speculation. Here they come, softly drifting down from the cloudy sky. Although we may feel a bit enclosed at times, there is a magical quality that exists between the constant commentary and storytelling that I like very much.