Every year, for as long as I can relember, my Grandma told me the same story on my birthday. Before she lived in Boise, she would come visit us every October and tell me the story in person. Afterwards, as I grew and moved (and even when I was on my mission), she would phone me up and say:
"I flew through a blizzard. I flew through a blizzard to be with you when you were born."
I was born in North Dakota emphasis on the North in late October. Grandma Ev had lived most of her life, save for a few war years in the Seattle area, in California. She could have flown through a blizzard, or it could have just been snowing when she arrived. I can't be sure, I wasn't born yet.
"I have pictures, Ranee. Proof that I took care of you. There's a picture of the day I arrived, my hair was set and in place. I was rested."
If she remembered where the pictures were, she would dig them out an show them to me.
"And look at this one. The day I left. I have bags under my eyes, my hair is a mess. All of that from nights up with you!"
In my youth I couldn't really tell a difference, but I would nod and agree with her. Though now I fully blame the 3 year old twins that were also in the house. They had to be a HANDFUL.
It's been six years since Grandma Ev called me on my birthday. I miss that call. And I miss her.
For the record, I've no idea if the top photo is me or Bobby. Classic middle child. The oldest are the twins and the youngest is the boy, TONS of photos of both of them. Not a lot of me. But let's just pretend it's me, kay?