Under the Dining Room Table at Grammy's
Assuming you empty the spare bedrooms of photo albums, Smithsonian Magazines and crates of canceled checks (1942-2015), my grandma’s house sleeps maybe 7 comfortably. There are 12 of us currently residence plus a 100-pound dog named Sawyer. If Grammy were here, she’d be harrumphing around between us, moving knick knacks out of harm’s way, fussing over hot water usage and rinsing out zip locks. Immediately upon arrival, my mom and her brothers played the age card and claimed the beds in the bedrooms. My cousins commandeered all sofas and the living room floor. By the time I showed up, my options were seriously limited. A hotel was out of the question. “Why do you want to stay in a hotel all by yourself? Your cousins are all staying at the house. I’m staying at the house. Your father is at the house. We’re all at the house. It would be nicer if you were at the house too. I don’t understand why you would leave us and waste the money on a hotel.” — My mother. So ...