Yesterday was my Mema's birthday. "Mema" is what I call my paternal grandmother - you know, she's The Rog's mama. She is very dear and lovely and ever-so-Southern. Our conversations generally go something like this:
Mema: Oh, honey. Your Pepa and I were going to the Walmart in Forsyth last week, and we got all caught up in the rush hour. Cars were zooming hither and yon, and I was just all of a dither.
Me: The whole population of Forsyth could fit in the Walmart.
Mema: Well, I reckon everybody was going somewhere at once.
So it was fitting when I unearthed an old Christmas gift from Mema while cleaning out my closet yesterday:
Yes, this is an ankle-length flannel nighty. I'm sure your impression of me just altered irrevocably. But, the nighty does have a funny history:
Mema: Honey, I'm afraid your Christmas is ruined.
Me: Why?
Mema: Well, I bought you something, but I'm not going to give it to you.
Me: Why?
Mema: Well, I think it might be Satanic.
Me: Why?
Mema: It has Satanic symbols on it, honey, and I'm just not going to give it to you.
I eventually convinced her to show me the Mephistophelian item, which turned out to be the above gown, and I assured her that worshipers of Satan did not generally avail themselves of flannel and snowmen, nor did they have a monopoly on moons and stars. She reluctantly handed it over, and it served me well on many a cold grad school night, particularly when I lived in a third floor bedroom that got so cold you could see your breath. But, I think it's time for Satan's sleepwear to head to the Goodwill; I just hope that it doesn't fall into impressionable hands.
Yes, this is an ankle-length flannel nighty. I'm sure your impression of me just altered irrevocably. But, the nighty does have a funny history:
