Everyone survived the move. We now have our very own tiny house. I’m starting to feel more normal, although the last week and a half has not been without drama.

Did you know that the average square footage of American homes has been creeping upwards for many years? In 1950 our little 600 sq ft cottage would have been above average in terms of sq ft per person. Now it seems embarrassingly tiny, although in most other way adequate. If it wasn’t for the need for two computer desks, a giant color printer, a 40 gallon fish tank, and an obscene amount of books, there would be plenty of room for a couch.

Grandma sort of woke up last week just enough to accuse us of absconding with her TV. For the record, when we moved in there were two TVs in grandma’s living room. The old one was having some sort of tube problem, which made the picture go wobbly. My uncle, the rich restaurateur, bought her a new flat screen, but no one could figure out how to hook it up to the satellite dish. Beorn hooked it up and we moved the old TV out, along with a bunch of trash from that attic.

On the positive side, Beorn and I sat with grandma Friday night while my dad and his wife had dinner out. Since grandma was temporarily lucid she talked to me for over an hour about her life growing up as a farm girl on the great plains during the depression. It was fascinating. Also, she commented repeatedly on what a good life she had then. I probably should have written it all down as soon as I got home.

Here’s one funny story. My grandma had three brothers. Apparently, once her father had bought a newer vehicle, her brothers still occasionally drove the 1928 Ford. In the winter, when their drinking water reservoir froze over they took the Ford out for a sort of car skating adventure, drinking it across the reservoir and purposely creating spins.

Similarly, my grandfather, at 14 drove his father’s pickup truck to work on the cattle ranch.

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