Out of the Mouths of Babes … or Into Their Tiny Hands
It’s hard to be gone from home for nearly three weeks straight, even if I’m having a great time meeting booksellers and readers and discussing Whistling Past the Graveyard. It’s even harder to be away from a 16-month-old granddaughter. To prevent complete Gram-withdraw symptoms, my hubby, son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter made a five hour drive from Indianapolis to meet me in Nashville, TN where I was signing books with author and friend Karen White at Parnassus Books.
The signing was wonderful. Lauren at Parnassus did a great job facilitating (even though she still felt the weight of Parnassus’ Neil Gaiman event just a few days prior). Karen and I both gave our spiel about our books and did our little readings before we had a great q&a / discussion with the fine folks in attendance. Interacting with readers who enjoy books as much as Karen and I do is truly a treat, and helps to pull us through long drives and distance from family.
Afterward, Karen joined the Crandall clan for a Saturday evening dinner (the restaurant will remain nameless to protect my identity). It had been a long, long day for baby Olivia, but she was a trooper, an angel at the dinner table. While we adults chatted, she busied herself unloading and reloading my purse (very into organizing, this baby). Of course, Karen, jokester that she is, maneuvered plenty of inappropriate things into Olivia’s reach to be reloaded into Gram’s purse. Before we left the restaurant I removed and returned to the table a salt shaker, a pepper mill, two different bottles of hot sauce, variously used cocktail napkins and sugar packets. Once all that was back where it belonged we left the restaurant. We put our sweet little girl to bed and I was able to lay my head down with images of her bright smile in my head.
At breakfast the next morning (in a different restaurant, wherein my husband and son consumed more french toast than perhaps they should), I was searching in my purse for my lip balm and what did I discover? One fork. Misplaced, of course, I won’t go so far as label myself (or my granddaughter) a thief!
At least it looked to be near the end of its useful life.
It is newly loved by me on the road, as a gift from my little Olivia. By the end, this will be one well-traveled fork, and, hopefully, the (nameless) restaurant will be none the wiser.