A grandma is warm hugs and sweet memories. She remembers all of your accomplishments and forgets all of your mistakes.
~Barbara Cage
When I was a child, our family would go to my grandparents’ every Sunday night for dinner. We’d walk in the door, and the first thing to greet us would be the wonderful aroma of roast beef cooking in the oven.
But what always made the visits extra special was dessert. My grandmother would always scoop ice cream for my sister and me, smother it with chocolate sauce, and top it with a maraschino cherry. Then she’d look around slyly as if someone might be lurking. If the coast was clear, she’d always put an extra cherry on mine. (I don’t remember if she did the same for my sister, but I’m guessing she did.)
She was the stereotypical grandmother — caring and doting, spoiling her grandchildren, always willing to help out my mom. But there was her other side. She took no sass from two daughters, nor from her sons-in-law, and definitely not from her grandchildren. She had no qualms about doing “the right thing,” no matter the consequences or embarrassment she might inflict. That leads me to another kind of grandmother memories.
It was a beautiful fall day in 1968, a Saturday. I was eleven years old and on my way out the door to see a movie with some friends.
“Take your jacket. It’s chilly outside,” my mom called from the kitchen.
“Okay!” I yelled back and raced out the door. I could see my friends already at the corner waiting for the bus to take us downtown.
Yeah, it was a little chilly outside, but certainly not enough to warrant a jacket. Cool eleven-year-old boys did not wear jackets unless the temperature dipped into the low forties. Really cool boys didn’t wear jackets until the temp hit freezing. It didn’t matter if our skin turned blue and goose bumps covered our arms. It just showed how tough we really were. Besides, it had to be about fifty degrees that day, and the sun was out. Not even close to jacket weather. So, out the door I went, sans jacket.
As I trotted down the driveway, my grandmother pulled up in a white car. I stopped to give her a quick peck on the cheek and a “hello.”
“What do you think of my new car?” Her voice was full of pride.
“Looks great.” I barely noticed, more concerned about being with my friends.
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a jacket?”
I shouldn’t have said what I did, but my friends were waving frantically, signaling the bus was in sight.
“Mom said it was okay.” I took off running toward the bus stop.
Best-case scenario: Mom and Grandma would never mention it to each other, and I’d get away with it. Worst-case scenario: My mom would find out I didn’t take my jacket, and I’d get grounded. But what could I do? The bus was on the way.
The bus picked us up, and we took our seats in the back, like we always did, as far away from the adults as we could.
Not six blocks away from where we boarded, the driver stopped to pick up another passenger. As the bus started to roll, it came to a sudden stop, blaring the horn as the passengers lurched forward. The horn stopped, and the door opened. Up the steps climbed my grandmother. The bus went silent as this small, elderly lady tromped to the back of the bus, locking me in a death glare. When the passengers saw whom she was scowling at, all eyes turned toward me. How could anyone not notice my face turn a bright shade of red?
She never said a word as she stood in front of me, her arm extended, my jacket dangling from her fist. Sheepishly, I took the jacket. Still without a word, my grandmother turned around and exited the bus.
As soon as the doors closed, everyone on the bus, friends and strangers alike, erupted in laughter. I felt about two inches tall, and wished I was so I could hide. Still beet red, I looked out the window to see a shiny white car back away from where it had blocked the bus. The bus continued on its route, my friends teasing me relentlessly, and smiles flashed on all the passengers’ faces. I’m sure they all had a great story to tell when they got home.
I came home that afternoon, and my mother never said a word about sending Grandma after me. For my part, I thought it best to keep my mouth shut, too. For the rest of the day, we pretended that nothing happened. I was able to put the incident behind me. But the following evening was dinner at the grandparents’. How should I act? She had made me a laughingstock — something my friends would never let me forget.
It turns out nothing happened. My grandmother never said a word. And when it was time for dessert, there was an extra maraschino cherry on top of my ice cream. All was forgiven.
~David Fingerman
