So when my dear granny, Nan-nan, called me out of the blue the week before Thanksgiving, I knew something was up. At first I thought she was going to request more rolls. Or that I bring "that one dish - that Craig likes" but instead she started on a different topic.
"Now, Holly," she began, her voice taking on the twang that I've known since I was a child. "Are you going to save the blood from the cord? The cord blood? Are you going to have them save that?"
I didn't know how to answer.
The surrounding dispute over stem cell research made me think I should tell her "no, nope - not gonna do that - sinful, it is!"
"'cause you should talk to your doctor about it. They'll save it for you. You pay a fee and then if the baby gets sick - you have it."
I didn't know how to respond. This woman once took a stack of my favorite L.J. Smith books about a secret coven of witches - and burned them. Ahem. BURNED them! Out in her backyard, my books that I spent my hard-earned pre-teen money on - were accused, tried, found guilty and sentenced to a slow, torturous death in the trash pile.
"Okay," I said. I didn't want to be next in line for the trash heap.
Later in the week Summer motioned to me with one of her tiny, shoestring-fry-like fingers. It was Thanksgiving day and we were all at my house eating buttery potatoes, turkey and a Paula Deen ham. "Nan-nan told me you had to get rid of the Harry Potter books in your house," she said in quick succession. (I inserted the spaces for ease of reading). "She said, 'those books - they'll bewitch the baby!"
I almost peed myself laughing.