Some of us gathered at Fritz European Fry House to eat Belgian fries and drink Belgian ale. This was planned well before the death of the maternal grandmother, but now it was a refuge from the world for a few moments—a place to gather in order to retreat and remember and be in the presence of one another.
Here I was, ale in hand, with the brother, the sister, the niece, and the child, toasting the life of a woman who was not only our grandmother and great-grandmother, but an alcoholic for a majority of her life. The irony was not lost upon us.
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