When my Grandma Leicester was alive, she’d invite one of her three grandchildren over to her house to spend the night. I can only remember once when two or even all three of us were there. Regardless, no matter who was there, as soon as you woke up you went and lay in bed with Grandma. Grandpa just rolled over and pretended to stay asleep. Grandma would tell stories, and soon we’d ask for our favorites.
“Grandma, tell me the story of you and your sisters camping, and Dorothy….” I’d collapse into a fit of giggles at that point.
Grandma would smile and say something, then she’d tell the story, again.
“There were five girls in my family, and we used to go camping in a covered wagon. We’d sleep out under the stars in big quilts, all sisters lined up together. Dorothy was always on one end, being the youngest, and there was an incline to the ground on which we were laying. Well, Dorothy wasn’t trained yet, so every time she’d wet the bed. And she wouldn’t say anything, we would just slowly feel like our quilts were getting wet, and then… DOROTHY! And we’d all laugh and our mom and dad would get up and clean up dorothy and we’d have to sleep in old wet pee beds all night until we could lay the quilts out in the sun the next day.”
I still love that story. And I can see Grandma smiling.
I had to ask Dad this morning which one of the sisters was the youngest, and he told me that Dorothy lived with he and his mom and dad (Grandma and Grandpa Leicester) during the war while her husband Jimmy, who was in the Navy, was out fighting World War II. Dorothy was very sensitive, jumped at loud noises and such. Well, dad hid in a closet one day and he scratched at the inside of the door when he heard her go by. She opened the door with a big butcher knife in her hand and she almost cut dad’s throat. It scared both of them half to death.
That’s my family.