She Liked Pickles & Pickleball

Tammy's peculiar love for pickles traced back to Grandma, whose own fondness for the tangy treat ensured our fridge was never without a jar.

Every weekend, we'd visit her Grandma's, and she'd play checkers with her. Sometimes, they'd tend to the garden outside. Other times, they would cook and bake together. Then, they snacked on pickles.

Following Grandma's passing, she seemed to eat more of it.

We thought it wise to address Tammy's growing obsession. The pickle jars, once symbols of her connection with Grandma, now seemed like an excess we ought to curb.

"Where are my pickles?" she demanded after one of her outdoor games, her voice echoing the loss of more than just her favored snack.

"We're cutting back," my wife gently suggested.

Tammy's storm of emotions—anger followed by tears and hard stomps on the floor as she retreated to her room—echoed her turmoil.

Yet, as time passed, we promptly forgot about this day, until she was 16, and she learned about pickleball, a sport blending elements of tennis and badminton.

"Remember the pickle ban?" she teased, jar in hand, a nod to both her defiance and cherished memories of Grandma.

"We only wanted what's best for you," my wife sighed, her words laden with unspoken regrets and the weight of parental decisions.

"I know," Tammy's response, softened by kisses to our cheeks as she went off to play pickleball.

An unforeseen accident on her way to the game abruptly changed our lives, her injuries a stark reminder of life's fragility.

We saw her in the hospital, wrapped up in bandages, with metal rods protruding from her. My wife cried when she saw this and stepped out.

"Will I lose a limb?" she whispered in the hospital, her vulnerability piercing through the veil of resilience.

"No," I reassured, clinging to hope and the promise of recovery.

Rehab came with Tammy's loss of appetite. She looked gaunt during my visits.

"Did you know," I told her a story, "your grandmother was the first woman to win our local marathon?"

"She was?"

I nodded. "She looked so thin then, didn't have much of an appetite, but she still practiced for the marathon. To force herself to eat more, she discovered something that got her going."

Tammy listened curiously.

"She learned that pickles would give her an appetite." I smiled. "That's how she eventually grew strong enough to win."

"I miss her," Tammy cried and hugged me.

I was teary-eyed but took out a jar of pickles and handed it to her.

She hugged me even tighter.

When Tammy left the hospital, she playfully taunted, "And you thought these were bad," holding up a pickle she was snacking on.

She looked healthier.

Months later, pickleball became a regular family affair.