For the Fun of It

Remembering a grandma.

In my earliest years, I lived with my grandparents on a postage stamp sized lot in a large steel city. Our working class neighborhood housed first- and second-generation immigrants, mostly from Europe, who presided over orderly homes, clean-swept streets and trimmed lawns. Meals were on a time-table, chores were a priority and affection was measured in acts of love and service – usually.

There were some rare evenings when the children in our house, all cousins and close in age, begged and cajoled my dear granny to let her hair down (after the grandpa had gone to bed, of course). When the kitchen counter was wiped and the last tea towel hung up for the evening, the quiet pleas would commence, and when we saw the twinkle in her eye, we knew the fun would soon begin.