Every Tuesday at 9am I pick up the phone and call her.

I dial her number, one I know by heart. Her name is Roberta. But I call her Nana Bert- my grandmother.

A few years ago, after my grandpa passed away, I told her I would do a better job of keeping in contact. At that point we only talked sporadically. Usually, when she would call me.

With two young daughters, a husband rarely home, and miles and time zones between us, I had plenty of excuses for not doing a better job of keeping in touch.

None of them very good.

That very first Tuesday, after the funeral, I pulled through the Starbucks drive-thru, ordered a Cinnamon Dolce Latte, and parked. With one hand I pushed a dvd into the player overhead for my youngest daughter, with the other I picked up my cell phone and called her.

Some weeks we talk about everyday life. She fills me in on my cousins, nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles. She catches me up on all the happenings at home and I fill her in on the latest from our family.

Other weeks we reminisce about Grandpa George, family history, or the camping trips they took us on as kids.

We talk about the time my two cousins, sister, and I rolled down a hill laughing. Dust billowed into the air and filled our mouths as we rolled round and round, down, down. Nana had to give us sponge baths in the camper sink when we returned to camp covered in dirt. The white washcloth was caked with mud by the time it was my turn to get wiped down.

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