Now you owe me a watermelon.

One fateful day in 1972, my grandfather Jack answered the door to a door to door salesman. "Have you made your final arrangements?" the salesman asked. Such a question. I mean- really. So, my grandfather, in a bout of agrarian irony, bought a section of a mausoleum which was yet unbuilt for himself and my grandmother. I had not visited his burial site until this past weekend when we brought my grandmother to rest next to her love. She knew what she was getting into. I had only heard of its horrible incarnation in family legend. And what a legend it is. The place where my grandparents will, (ostensibly) spend eternity is a corrugated metal building close to the Nashville airport. The building itself boasts a replica of Jesus' tomb, complete with shroud, crown of thorns as well as exposed air vents and tubing. The halls themselves are lined with pink carpet and an appalling number of fluorescent bug zappers. I was disappointed that the 'baptist organ music' that so disturbed my dad during previous visits was no longer in use. Needless to say that these arrangements totally appalls my family, who can build, grow and fly themselves any where or anything they darn well please. My dad is campaigning to move them, to take my grandparents out of that appalling place in the dark of the night and put them somewhere properly befitting our love and respect. I know this is wrong, but the whole thing amuses me to no end.

I LOVED Nashville. I mean, where else is there music pouring out of every bar, where you can get a cowboy hat whenever your little heart desires, where you can eat at a proper, locally sourced restaurant OR have a sandwich which employs coleslaw and fries with the cheese and tomatoes? How often do you get to hang out at your dad's college dive bar? And, if that is not enough, Rotier's had fried pickles. I ate them. We all did.

So, here's to you, my family- my gorgeous, crazy, Tennessee contingent. May we always find each other, even in the very strangest of places.