people in her family lived until they were about a hundred.
The doctors said she'd died from leukemia, but Mom thought it was
radioactive poisoning. The government was always testing nuclear
bombs in the desert near the ranch, Mom said. She and Jim used to go
out with a Geiger counter and find rocks that ticked. They stored them in
the basement and used some to make jewelry for Grandma.
"There's no reason to grieve," Mom said. "We've all got to go someday,
and Grandma had a life that was longer and fuller than most." She
paused. "And now we have a place to live."
Mom explained that Grandma Smith had owned two houses, the one she
lived in with the green shutters and French doors, and an older house,
made of adobe, in downtown Phoenix. Since Mom was the older of the
two children, Grandma Smith had asked her which house she wanted to
inherit. The house with the green shutters was more valuable, but Mom
had chosen the adobe house. It was near Phoenix's business district,
which made it a perfect place for Mom to start an art studio. She'd also
inherited some money, so she could give up teaching and buy all the art
supplies she wanted.
She'd been thinking we should move to Phoenix ever since Grandma died
a few months back, but Dad had refused to leave Battle Mountain
because he was so close to a breakthrough in his cyanide-leaching
process.
"And I was," Dad said.
Mom gave a snort of a laugh. "So the trouble you kids got into with Billy
Deel was actually a blessing in disguise," she said. "My art career is
going to flourish in Phoenix. I can just feel it." She turned around to look
at me. "We're off on another adventure, Jeannettie-kins. Isn't this
wonderful?" Mom's eyes were bright. "I'm such an excitement addict!"