Grrrrr...
I am cursed when it comes to banks. I recently went through a tremendously stressful tussle with my bank over a typo made by one of their tellers. It took a week and 13 phone calls for me to explain their error to them. Then, part of my student loans were purchased by a bank whose name rhymes with Fachovia. No biggie, interest rate is the same, reputable bank. Well, almost every single payment has had an issue culminating with the last payment being sent by my bank and now simply missing. That's right folks, gone. The customer service is no help, asking me what I want them to do. Well, finding the check might be a good start. So, as I try not to yell at some lady sitting in a call center just trying to get through her work day, I will myself to think happy thoughts. So here you go...
One of my favorite memories growing up was a lazy summer day at my grandmothers. I can remember the sound of the birds chirping, the prick of freshly mown grass, the freshness of a breeze as it blew through the creaks of her house. I can smell and feel the paper bags loaded with romance novels, westerns and the occasional science fiction paperbacks. These were books that were read over and over, circulating through the community of little old ladies. Yellowed corners, some with green edges, all had bright illustrations of gallant men and beautiful heroines. I would sit on the back porch and read, and read and read some more. Always comforted by the steady hum of the whirring blades cooling my grandmothers bedroom. I can see the lace curtains filtering sunlight and the small blue silk bag holding my grandfathers wedding ring swinging from it's frayed ribbon cord, so subtle it the breeze.
Afternoon naps were essential, and I still love them. I would lay next to my grandmother and just concentrate on her powdered, perfumed smell and listen to her soft breathing. I have always been a worrier and had planned out who to call and how to run to the neighbour if she were to stop breathing. She was a strong, tough and funny lady. I think of her so much in the summer.
Especially now that I can sit here with the windows open on our wonderfully quiet street. I love it when the breeze blows through the windows and open them any chance I get just to feel the smooth breezes that carry the smell of cut grass.
Ok, I feel a little better.
One of my favorite memories growing up was a lazy summer day at my grandmothers. I can remember the sound of the birds chirping, the prick of freshly mown grass, the freshness of a breeze as it blew through the creaks of her house. I can smell and feel the paper bags loaded with romance novels, westerns and the occasional science fiction paperbacks. These were books that were read over and over, circulating through the community of little old ladies. Yellowed corners, some with green edges, all had bright illustrations of gallant men and beautiful heroines. I would sit on the back porch and read, and read and read some more. Always comforted by the steady hum of the whirring blades cooling my grandmothers bedroom. I can see the lace curtains filtering sunlight and the small blue silk bag holding my grandfathers wedding ring swinging from it's frayed ribbon cord, so subtle it the breeze.
Afternoon naps were essential, and I still love them. I would lay next to my grandmother and just concentrate on her powdered, perfumed smell and listen to her soft breathing. I have always been a worrier and had planned out who to call and how to run to the neighbour if she were to stop breathing. She was a strong, tough and funny lady. I think of her so much in the summer.
Especially now that I can sit here with the windows open on our wonderfully quiet street. I love it when the breeze blows through the windows and open them any chance I get just to feel the smooth breezes that carry the smell of cut grass.
Ok, I feel a little better.
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