Memories of Grandma

I still remember the day. December 6, 1995. I had been working at my part-time job at a computer store just off-campus, suffering through a wicked head cold. I’d begged my manager to let me leave early, but he’d needed me to stay. (I remember feeling not only put out, but tortured — I hadn’t done much all day.) I had trudged the two-odd kilometres back home just itching to crawl into bed and not emerge for a day or so. But when I placed my foot on the driveway of the house I was living in, I had a feeling that something wasn’t right.

I rushed inside, quickly descending to the room in the basement I’d rented (I was one of seven students in the house; four up, three down), and immediately went over to my phone, not removing my jacket. There was the familiar pulsing tone that said I had voicemail. It was my father. Dad never called me. ┬áMom would always call, then hand over to Dad. He was quiet, saying only to call home when I got in. The news was short.

Grandma had died.

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My first coffee

Yes, you read that right. I drank coffee. Not a coffee-flavoured beverage, not something with Kahlua. Coffee. Real. Honest. Caffeinated.

Those of you who know me are probably all thinking the same thing: Uh oh.

I offer you the following piece of encouragement: Don’t panic. I’m not an addict. Yet.

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