My subject for this segment of #52Ancestors2015 began with an in-depth (and heated) discussion with Nostalgia for all of last week and the better part of this one!
“You cannot write about her either, Dearie” the Old Banshee scolded again.
“But she’s a tough woman and a relative,” I retorted.
“But, she is NOT your ancestor, so, she is not eligible.”
“And where is that written in the rules?” I called back frustrated.
“Lady Bird indicated 52 Ancestors,” Gia reiterated. “And you well know, Rabbit, an ancestor is commonly known to be a relative who was here before …”
“Fine, fine,” I caved, tossing my hands over my head. “I’ll write about you instead, if it will shut you up!”
Gia’s face lit up as she gushed a little surprise at the compliment and a tad of uncertainty at the jibe.
“That is nice, Dearie, I think, but you don’t know very much about me.”
Hiding behind my monitor, I smiled wickedly. “Oh, I know plenty about you, my Dear Old Fossil.”
I cleared my throat before continuing.
“You are like an unwanted older sister,” I started. “Mama Rabbit told me many times that you were a foundling, wailing from your laundry basket upon the doorstep.”
“Laundry? Basket? Rabbit, come now, you jest!”
“The basket was filled with strange white flowers,” I continued undaunted. “It was like you were buried in them.”
The Old Banshee’s worried expression softened as she heard familiar information.
“Go on,” she gestured regally.
“But, Mum didn’t notice your little braided handband until after she picked you up.”
Nostalgia was enraptured. “Yes, I remember Mama telling me that…”
“And you were still wailing at the top of your little lungs — I am a VooDoo child and I don’t take No for an answer!”
Nostalgia sunk into a nearby chair, wide-eyed and ashen.
“Dressed in your little Woodstock onesie,” I grinned wide, “that was really a t-shirt held together by those plastic, safety-headed diaper pins!”
Finished, I looked over my monitor. My nemesis was grey like granite and immovable.
“Gia?” I queried, keeping my safe distance.
“Gia?” I ventured out from my safety zone, and crept closer. “Gia, are you …”
Mid-sentence I was, when her head snapped in my direction. Her eyes were a piercing red like those little LEDs you find on cheap keyrings, and down the sides of her face, the evidence of tears.
“… leaking?” I asked.
“You wicked, wicked man!” she bawled, scrambling out of the chair and room, only to rush upstairs to her Inner Sanctum, finalizing her retreat by slamming the door.
A few minutes later, MiLady then joined me, having had a nice relaxing bath.
“Who is slamming doors?” she asked sweetly, as she leaned over and kissed me after taking a seat upon the sofa beside me.
“What did you say to her now?!?” The sweet tone was no more.
I then explained I had at last gotten even to all of her badgering insults.
“It’s been going on for nearly two weeks, Dearst,” I finally pleaded.
“You need to go up there and apologize to her,” was the home-court decision.
“But, SHE started it!” I whined.
“And, YOU’RE finishing it!” MiLady said, pointing upstairs.