My middle name is Marjorie, sharing a birthday with The Simpsons premiere (handy icebreaker, though nobody calls me Marge).
Marjorie honors my late grandmother. We lived 30 miles apart, seeing her at Christmas where I’d play their electric piano while she and her jovial second husband laughed together.
She brought knick-knacks from trips for us six granddaughters—a Florida seashell globe stands out. At their Wisconsin cabin, we shared dive-bar battered mushrooms before her health declined.
The name carries her quiet presence through those visits and our last October Christmas photo, still framed in my hall.
Featured Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
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