Anyone who knows me knows I have the best grandparents. And not in a World’s Best Granddad Coffee Mug
kind of way. In a
My-Grandddad-Is-Spending-His-87th-Birthday-in-Botswana kind of way. These guys love to travel and took my
brother and me to all 50 states before I turned 18. They are smart and interesting and, well… my
granddad can beat up your granddad.
That’s all there is to it.
My grandparents have a knack for choosing the perfect
gift. I can promise you that my granddad
has a better eye for selecting a pair of pants that fit me than I do. It is uncanny that every Christmas they can
pick out a head to toe outfit (you bet those socks match!) that fits
perfectly. And guess what? They are Bookworms, too.
This past weekend, when not changing the explosive diarrhea diapers of a young friend, I finished A
Train in Winter by Caroline Moorehead.
This was a Christmas gift from my grandparents, a book that sold out so
fast in Williamsburg they had to order a copy of this (surprise!) World War II biographical
story.
My granddad read it before I did and warned me it started
off a bit slow. He was right, though my
main criticism of the book was the fact that there were so many women’s stories
woven in that I couldn’t keep track of them all. They were all members of the French
Resistance and incredibly brave, but I don’t feel like I got to know any of the
230 women in the book since for the most part I couldn’t follow who was who
from start to finish.
This was exactly the kind of book I would have ordered for
myself, and I love receiving books as gifts, so this was a win-win. I’m sure my grandparents are counting the
days until the end of their Africa-And-Oh-Yeah-Let’s-Swing-By-Madrid-Trip so
they can read this critique.
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| Proud Matriarch and Patriarch look on at family antics featuring bottle of Dom Perignon. |
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