Good memories, part 1

We spent Memorial Day at my grandparent's farm last summer.  My grandparent's farm - this is the place where I love to go for the peacefulness and the woods and the brilliant night sky.  I guess it's nice during the day, too, if it wasn't for the bugs and the heat and the sun and that since it's a family picnic you're not supposed to stay inside and read your book.

My daughter was doing softball at the time at the Y and I suggested we play baseball so she could get some practice.  My bossy brother heard me and insisted we play kickball instead.  I'm 31 and my brother is 36 and we still regress back to our childhood roles of him being bossy and me being sneaky.

He decided we were going to choose teams, that archaic schoolyard practice that still haunts me - I was always chosen last in elementary school.  But this time, my daughter was picking - she picked me first!  She also picked my 73-year old grandfather. 

This is the part that makes it my favorite memory.  I never knew anything until I saw my grandfather, who I love and admire and who I placed on a pedestal when I was five years old, playing this kickball game.  Determination.  Coaching - "Michelle, you need to run fast!".  Verve.  

And the best moment of all, Popa sprinting around third base and heading for home, with my bossy brother aiming for him, and so my 73-year old grandfather slides into home plate.  SAFE!  And the crowd roared.

It was a perfect moment.