That’s me on the left, my Grandpa and my sister Tracy.
O is for Oregon

My grandparents lived in Oregon. We picked them up at the airport every other year. The trip to the airport was a treat to watch people coming and going.

Grandma and Grandpa were different than our Ma and Pa, who lived in Georgia in a small holler. We could see them anytime.

Our Oregon grandparents stayed a week or more and left. They randomly called and talked to our parents.

One year, I got chicken pox during my grandparent’s visit. I spent an entire week at home with them while my sister and brother went to school. I don’t recall a single thing we did during their visit, but I remember being with them.

The phone rang one night and we were told that Grandpa died. There was no funeral like we attended when our Ma died. Instead, the next summer we went to the airport and took our first family plane trip to Oregon.

Our Grandma was happy to see us. Dad treated us to maple iced treats from a local bakery. We dipped our toes in the cold, cold ocean. We picked up pieces of drift wood from the beach. We met some of our dad’s relatives.

Every time I smell a maple iced donut or cinnamon bun, I think of our trip to Oregon when we visited Grandma and didn’t get to see Grandpa.

My sister, brother and me in Oregon