![]() And when my wife and I made the big move to OUR house in 1984, my Dad passed them on to us. She must have seen the gleam in my eyes, for in her will she bequeathed them all to me. That summer I PORED over them gluttonously. Strangely, that was inconsequential to the young, spoilt kid I was. Many of those were irreparably damaged in the long haul from central Utah. That same van included furniture, artwork and antiques. her THOUSANDS of books were soon to follow her - in a huge Moving Van. She always had fantastically imaginative stories to tell us kids! And that’s not all - for that magical summer of the move, after she came. And each visit she made to our previous little bungalow, before the big move that summer, had been for me like Alice following the March Hare into Wonderland. ![]() “Gagi”, as I had brokenly mispronounced the word Granny at 18 months, had stuck as her revered sobriquet. My parents had turned me and my younger siblings into the pampered offspring of a double-income, upwardly-mobile fifties family 6 years previous to this, and the plans for their proud acquisition of a new and modern split-level home - when I turned thirteen - had had enough gracious foresight to provide an ensuite apartment for my grandmother. ![]() ![]() When I was 13 years old, my wonderfully wise grandmother came to live with us. ![]()
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