August 17
The house seems larger than I remember, which I suppose doesn't normally happen when you step foot in a place you were last in as a 12 year old. We're right near Driscoll's farm, from whence I remember even in Pennsylvania growing up always seeing strawberries marked "Watsonville, California". "Do you have any deer out here?" I asked, just in the off chance there were (not that I'd have any idea where they'd live). "No," Grandma said. "Maybe mountain lions though." This was as we drove the last few minutes to their place from the airport an hour away. The walls are covered in what I can only describe as tasteful kitsch. A section for miniature sheep, some Texaco memorabilia (my grandfather ran a Texaco gas station decades ago), the cupboard of fancy china, those famous images of the bearded man praying over a loaf of bread and Jesus knocking at a door. Pictures of chickens and eggs. Framed poems my grandmother wrote decades ag...
