“Hi, Grandma, how are you?” I yelled, as I entered her house.
I knew she would be in the next room, playing solitaire at her card table.
She lived right next door, and, after I ate lunch at our house, I would walk to her house and eat again. I knew she would have Pop Tarts, ice cream and soda pop, all the good stuff we never had at home. I’d sit down next to her on her couch, which was always covered with a thick plastic cover. This cover came in handy the time I dropped a bowl of ice cream on it. When I made a mess she would yell “Ookie-pooks!” and have a fit until it was cleaned up.
Butchie, her dog, might waddle into the room.
Butchie got snacks all day and all night; his stomach buffed the floor.
“Hey Grandma, can I get something to eat?” I asked with a smile.
“Stevie, you’re getting so fat, but, I did get the chocolate-filled, chocolate-covered ones you like so much.”
She said mixed up things all the time. I didn’t care–I lived for those Pop Tarts. Then she’d hug Butchie, and say, “I love my little ootie-bootums, yes yes yes.”
Grandma was Jewish. I knew this because she ate bagels with cream cheese and some lousy crackers called Matzo. Sometimes a man with a very small hat would visit. Grandma would give him money and say that it was her Rabbi. She would say something funny and, when you looked at her, she would be making a silly face. I’ve never met anyone quite like Grandma, but, I do catch myself acting just like her sometimes.