I think of Grandma having to clean large garbage cans full of wild grapes that we’d brought from up Mud mud Creek in the canoe.
Today, I walked out into my backyard and harvested domestic grapes from a small arbor vineyard. I only have to wash and clean two small shopping sacks full of grapes that are three times the size of the wild ones Grandma had to clean, washing off the dirt, the cobwebs, the dust, the stems.
Already my feet are sore, my back is tight, my hands and fingers are wrinkled.
I still remember the taste of that wild grape jam, jars and jars and jars she’d made for us.
But, until now, I had no idea how much effort it took.
How Grandma Loved Us!
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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