A blogger friend (Kristen) did a recent blog-post about signs and I thought I'd do the same (ack-I'm a copy blogger!! LOL).
No, not road signs. Sign signs. Like, "give me a sign if....".
My grandma (mom's mom), Rose, was awesome. She had 10 kids, lived on a farm and her husband passed away the year I was born (1978). She wouldn't dare ever buy soap because she made her own. She wouldn't dare buy a loaf of bread, but would make 18 loaves a week. She cooked with lard all the time and wouldn't leave an ounce of meat on a chicken carcass for fear of wasting it. She was awesome.
My mom was very close with her--both in proximity and in their relationship. When grandma started getting ill, my mom would visit with her daily. She was 92 when she went into the hospital, where she wasn't a patient for long due to her forthcoming passing. While she was in the hospital, my mom was with her almost the entire time. On the day she died (I wasn't there, but this story is told by my mom) my mother found a feather on the hospital floor (in her room) just moments before she passed away. She picked it up and stuck it in her pocket, not even thinking about it, really.
A few days later, my mom told me this story and we talked about it...The burning question is this: why would there be a feather on the floor of a very sterile hospital room? Where did it come from? Grandma.
That was in 2002.
My mom and I have found feathers all the time since then. We'd find them on our own and we'd find them together-when we did, we'd pick them up and smile to each other. As a matter of fact I just had a moment of the feather finding. I was taking out the "brown and serve" rolls for Thanksgiving just last week. As I was trying to remove them from their plastic bag so I could place the perfectly formed rolls on the baking sheet, I noticed a very small feather floating through the air of my kitchen. At that very moment I knew it was grandma, slapping my wrist for not making my own dough.