Breakfast at Bobby's

 Last Friday, I took the kids to Uncle Bobby's house.  I got him to cook us French toast, a dish I almost always screw up but he does so well.  I love good french toast.  He had wanted me to come see what he'd done with the place, he misses the kids (though he still babysits about once a week in the morning before work) and I wanted to see what was going on out there.  Above is Uncle Bobby cooking for us (in a shirt I bought him last week to thank him for all his help while I was recovering...that guy is addicted to caffeine, especially Coke).

Adam and Abbey are making themselves comfortable in the living room.  Uncle Bobby taped Toy Story 3 for them, always a favorite, and they have their bucket of toys from when it was Grandma's house.  Bobby added a few things in here, like the chair and table and hung his own photos.  It looks really good and was pretty clean.  It honestly felt more comfortable then when it was Mom's house.  Her aesthetic over the years has become more and more bare.  Her house now looks like a white museum.  And the aura is better...probably because Mom was just so sad.

Doesn't that look good?  The kids loved it so much, Adam ended up with some of mine!

BB.  Bobby's dog, for awhile my parents' dog, too but here she is just him and her again.  She did get a little worked up when Bobby put her in the bedroom when we got there (Abbey is very aggressive about petting dogs and she's got a good heart, but if Abbey pulled at the wrong thing, I'd hate for something bad to happen).  She calmed down though rather quickly.  I hate to say it, but she's calmer without my Mom in the house for some reason.

Bobby's revamp of the master bedroom.  He put that shelf in there, which I like.  If you look closely, you can see a framed poster of Casablanca in it.  My Dad made that frame for my Mom and gave it to  her with the poster years ago.  You may have noticed (or not) that my brother has afghans everywhere.  We grew up with these blankets that my grandmother Charlotte and great-grandma GG had made.  This blue one was made for my brother when he was a kid and the ones in the living room were made for my parents before I was born.  It was really homey and a bit like being connected to my childhood.

Trying to get a picture of the kids with Uncle Bobby.  This is on the couch (that blanket was made by his mom for my Dad 40 years ago)  See how well the portrait effort worked?

Handsome guys.  Do you see a resemblance?

Couldn't get a decent picture of Abbey looking at the camera.  But can you see the love in Uncle Bobby's eyes??  It actually, first thing, reminded me of a photo I have of my Dad looking at Abbey right before he died.  What is it about Miss Abigail that makes all the guys in her life fall so hard??

Uncle Bobby had to go to work so he took off while we cleaned up.  My mother had told me to take any of the dishes/bowls I wanted.  I left with three that are still sitting in my car.  I started to think their rightful place is where they were, on Floridaville Rd. in Granby.
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I also took a side trip to the pole barn where my grandmother's stuff is.  What's left of it, anyhow.  With my kids in the car, I quickly shuffled through a few containers, finding some old paperwork.  And Paddington Bear, which had been in her living room my whole childhood and she let me play with when I came over.  And her portraits of Jerry.  I called my Mom, but she told me she had all the important paperwork and to leave it there for her to go through when she came back (which means it will sit there for a few years, I think).

I kept an old insurance policy issued in the 1950's to Jerry, of all things, not sure why.  It felt sad...I don't want to be reduced to a few plastic bins in a pole barn when I die.  I'm not saying I don't want anyone to move on or my stuff shouldn't be given away, but since she died, it seems like that's all she was.  I know relationships weren't her best thing and I think I do a lot better job than that.  It just tapped into my newly acquired fear of death.  I'm not afraid of dying when I'm 80, I'm afraid of dying now.  More afraid of the death of others, people I love.  But there's nothing I can do about that, is there?  Death is the ultimate kryptonite for us control freaks, I think.