Earlier this week, the sunshine was pouring into my kitchen.

Earlier this week, the sunshine was pouring into my kitchen. It was wonderfully warm and bright outside. Choosing to ignore the whisperings of global warming that occasionally filter through my brain I instead chose to enjoy the few minutes of solitude before the gym bags and textbooks catapulted through our front door.

I often have to take brain breaks from writing and one of the best ways to switch my thinking from a tough assignment is to wash the dishes. I genuinely love to wash dishes.

Washing dishes at my maternal grandmother's was an endurance sport. I swear that woman could stick her hands in boiling water while ironically enough she couldn't pronounce the word boiling. She added an "r" to it, so that word came out "boirling."

As a small child, I would stand on a three-step kitchen ladder beside her, watching, fascinated, as her hands stayed submerged under the suds. All I could do was dart my hands in and out, hoping to snatch a fork or a cup; wrapping my fingers around it long enough to pull it out to the cool air where I would scrub it off and hand it to her for rinsing under the faucet of equally scalding water.

I was the first grandchild and even though I eventually became one of five granddaughters I would hold my hands under scalding water today just to wash dishes with her one more time.

We're all having fun with sister's wedding plans, but I've got to be honest, I'm still in the background doing the happy dance because I know we're just that much closer to grandkids. It's fun to imagine what traditions we'll cultivate. I can teach them how to wash dishes by hand, in slightly hot water, and Big Al can share the finer points of the Beatles.

Innovations are right and left. There are new gadgets every day that modernize our lives and seemingly assist us in moving further and further into our individual shells, but it's the simple times we spend together that make lasting memories. Especially on warm, sunshine filled afternoons.