© 2012 Aaron Atkinson

Bad Egg

One of my most vivid memories of my Grandma occurred a few years ago. We were at her house in Wheatley, Ontario. It was cold and snowy winter day. We were making our way across her shoveled driveway having just arrived home. Dad held her by the arm as Mom walked next to her. Meghan and I followed closely behind. No one noticed that Tim had hung back.

All of a sudden a snowball whizzed past all of us, narrowly missing the hand-knitted cap my regal and proper Grandma wore. The snowball splattered against the side of her light green house sending slushy shrapnel falling to the ground.

Aware that she’d narrowly missed quite an unpleasantry. She slowly turned around and looked at Tim. And in a tone that was playful yet honest she exclaimed, “Tim, you’re a bad egg!”

The good egg that I was, I dropped back to protect her flank, drawing further fire away as she made her way inside.

As I launched my counterattack I chuckled at the knowledge that Tim was most certainly a bad egg. For as far as anyone knows, dear Grandma A was never wrong. About anything. Ever.

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