Okay, last old photograph post for the week...

My grandmother (left) and my prim and proper great-grandmother are spinning in their respective graves at this moment.  An age-old photograph of them in their bathing costumes, as they called them, is now on the internet for the entire world to see.  My grandmother was a pip, let me tell you.  She didn't inherit one bit of her sainted mother's ladylike demeanor.  As she was fond of saying, she called a spade a spade - but my grandfather would reply, "No you didn't - you called it a g-d-d-amned shovel!"  She had this 1954 Plymouth which she drove like a bat out of hell and she was livid every time a bird left evidence of its presence on her little black car.  "There's bird sh-t on my car again!" she'd shriek.  I started pointing it out to her: "Look, Grandma, a bird sh-t on your car!"  She'd smack me on the bottom and say, "That's bird manure, young lady!"  Grandma invented the doctrine of Do as I say, not as I do.  I was at least ten before I knew that my Grandpa's name was Bill; she either called him Honey or You Son-of-a-B-tch.  Once she arrived alone at our house in Florida; we asked where Grandpa was and she said she had no idea - she had left him somewhere in North Carolina.  The next day he showed up on the bus.  He had, during my mother's childhood, been a raging drunk and once he got sober, Grandma still only put up with so much.  I don't ever remember Grandpa drinking until after my Grandmother died - but she had her limits after many years of putting up with his shenanigans.  I have, however, always thought it was quite funny that my tee-totaling  mother never would have even met my father if my grandfather hadn't been drunk and fallen off the hay wagon on the farm.  My mom went to the hospital to see her dad and my single, handsome father noticed her tight, red pedal pushers as she sashayed down the hallway or so the story goes.  Maybe she was a lot nicer then - I would hope so - and I guess that's where I came from.  Hee hee!