Things were a little different at my dad's parents house. More formal. They had money. You didn't rummage through their things and you definitely didn't run in their house. They lived in a three-story home with collections everywhere. My favorite was the coo-coo clocks, which my grandpa would wind every night. I knew my dad's parents hated my mom. I can remember sneaking to try to call her when I was with them. I often stayed several days with them at a time on the weekends or during the summer. I rarely saw my dad, but every now and then he would come over to say hi. I was either in Pre-K or K at this time. I'd spend a lot of time during the week with my mom's parents and the weekends with my dad's parents. I don't remember spending a lot of time with my mom or dad, but I wanted to be with my mom very badly.
My dad's parents had a finished basement with two sides. In one room there were walls and walls of unpainted ceramics that my grandparents would paint while I played on the other side. I had a small record player there and an old school desk. I would play records as much as I could while I was there and learned to love to sing while I was with them. I would sing to their little Yorkie every night before supper. I really liked my grandpa, but knew my grandmother was a judgmental person. I can remember singing old George Jones songs with grandpa in the car after church. My father's side was Catholic and very devout. You never ate ravioli's at their house, but they did make the best buttermilk dressing. I was dressed in the best while I was with them and taught to be still and behave. I remember the police coming to their house during dinner one evening. My mother was with them and saying that my grandparents wouldn't let her have me. Apparently my grandmother was trying to get custody of me. She had a detective following my mother who "was the kind of dirty soap wouldn't wash off". I really loved my mom. That was the beginning of the end of my relationship with my father's family. Things were about to get ugly.
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