The Interview

                                                          The Interview

　

When my grandaughter asked to interview me for her homework

assignment it was flattering and also satisfying because I wanted so much

to share with them some of my childhood memories of historic events such

as Pearl Harbor Day.

And what could be better than being around a dinner table with all of them,

children and grandchildren, eating, talking, laughing and keeping us all up

to date with their lives. My first grandchild was expecting my first great -

grandchild… it’s poetic! Two others had graduated college, and the rest

were college students while my youngest had just entered high school.

We had just cleared the table, had the first load in the dishwasher and were

putting out the dessert, tea and cakes, melons and candy. As usual I

didn’t realize how much of a chocoholic I was until the table was set with

so much chocolate and perhaps not enough ‘fruity’ things; apples, sure but

they were in a pie (does that count?)… sliced watermelon, any nutritional

value there? Was I encouraging sugar addiction in my beloved future

generations?

Was I going to hear about this from my daughters?     

“So Grandma,”, said Emily, pen and notebook in hand, “First

question, What is your favorite color?”

Not too meaty a question, I thought but, okay, she‘s starting slow and

building up, “I like blue, and I also like yellow, so yes, yellow is my

favorite.”

She wrote into her notebook. “What is your favorite season.?”

“Ah! The Fall, when it’s clear and crisp, when the leaves are changing

color and…”

“Next, Grandma what is your favorite movie?”

“Easy, ‘The Sound of Music‘. I leaned back, relaxed, the meal was good.

They loved the roast chicken with potatoes and the Mid-Eastern salads

were always a treat for them.

“… the scenery…”I continued…“Julie…’

“Next, who is your favorite actor?”

Why was she rushing me? “Kevin Costner, did you all see him…?

“Who is your favorite singer?”

“John Denver because …”

“ Who is your favorite grandchild?”

The question was like a lightening bolt crashing through the ceiling.

Everyone and everything in the room came to a halt, the eating, pouring,

slicing, chewing, dunking…even the whistling teapot became silent.

My first thought was at how smoothly and cleverly Allison had slipped

that question in with the other innocent ones…another Barbara Walters,

in the making?

Thirteen pairs of eyes were on me. Seven pairs were the grandkids. The

rest were my three children and their spouses who also seemed interested in

my response. Did they think if they stared hard enough they could read my

mind???

“Oh!” I jumped up, “I forgot the strawberries!”

“No, you stay, I’ll get them.” said my daughter Debbie. Two of my

grandkids were hers.

Fifteen year old Haley took the plate from her mother and set each

strawberry along the edge of the watermelon platter, carefully

placing the pointed ends out, a la Martha Stewart.

“So Grandma, what’s your answer?” asked Emily.

How many times, I wondered, has that question been asked since time began

by millions…billions of children?

“My answer is…” I began, looking around the table at my loved ones,

the very same that had just wolfed down my delicious meal and starting

in on dessert while they put me in the hot seat. “My answer is…”

“Grandma, do you have any honey for the tea?” asked Natalie.

“Ssh, don’t interrupt her,” said Bonnie, “she’s thinking.”

“I’m not thinking, there’s nothing to think about! Natalie, the honey

 is in the cabinet over the sink.”

 I stood up. “Now listen, all of you. I have no favorite. I love you all

equally."

Everybody burst into laughter, “Ok Grandma“… “Yeah, sure“… “Sure

'equally' ”

Lenny came over to me, his 18 year old body had developed into a man’s and

so did his confidence. “Just name someone Grandma, we won’t be angry.

Right?” He looked around the table at his siblings and cousins.

Neil was my 14 year old future defense attorney, “Leave Grandma alone,

she told us what she thinks,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. I

was his underdog.

Again, my own children were strangely quiet.

The phone rang, “Should I answer it?” asked Natalie.

“No,” I said, “we know who it is, they call at dinnertime, they’re doing

surveys, selling things, local politicians…”

"It’s Nana” she said reading the ID screen. She handed me the phone.

‘Nana’ was my mother, 97 years old, still living at home and up to date on

family news. “How are they all, finished with dinner and having desert?”

“Yes Mom, and Emily is interviewing me for her homework.”

“Let me talk to her” said Emily, “Nana. I asked Grandma a question and

she won’t answer it.”

“I did answer it!” I insisted. “Give me the phone. Mom, they want to

know …‘who is my favorite grandchild.’”

My mother burst into laughter, “Oh, that one. Well, it’s easy. Tell them

that you ‘love them all 'equally'. That’s what we told you…it always works.”

It always works?Memories flooded back…no, let’s not open that can of worms.
“I did,” I said in a lowered voice, “They don’t believe me.”

“I’ll tell you what to…”

‘Mom, you can’t hear me? Check your hearing aid batteries.” I said, loudly.

“Nana can’t hear me” I announced, “I’ll talk to her in the den. Don’t

anybody leave!” As if they would, I thought.

My mother and I spoke to her for only two minutes, “Call me later.” she said.

Back in the dining room they were all waiting for me. I poured myself a cup

of hot tea and took the chocolatest chocolate on the table. I deserved it!

“Ok, Nana sends her love, and this is my answer to Emily's question,

 “You are all my favorite, each and every one of you!” I spoke slowly

emphasizing each word and looking into their eyes, one by one. “You are

all my favorite!"

It took less than a minute for my words to take effect, and then like magic

the room came to life again. And all I did was change four words,

turn the sentence inside out.

With all the education in that room, Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees and a

PHD, a 97 year old woman who never finished High School had earned

her LE Degree the old fashioned way, in Life Experience.

So we put that subject to rest for now at least. Of course my granddaughter

Bonnie who was just starting to have a family would have her turn to deal

with it sometime in her future.

                                               THE END

" I'll Drive"

MY SIDE OF THE SENIOR STREET

                                                                  “ I’LL DRIVE”
                                       (That 'mother/daughter thing')


　

I pulled up in front of my daughter Debbie’s house expecting her to be

waiting outside; she was, after all, a stickler for ‘promptness’. Once, when I

first moved to Long Island I got to her house 20 minutes late and although

my sin/crime has been forgiven, (I hope) it is not forgotten. With every

invitation I receive, “Don’t be late!” is always added.

“It only happened once… years ago!” I’d protest. “ How can I get my

reputation back?”

But today, she was late. I checked my cell phone for the time, it was

really only 9 minutes past the agreed on time. Should I say something to

her, a sarcastic comment …‘So, who’s late now..?’ I was tempted, but I

knew I wouldn’t. With a house, husband, and children to take care of and

a job, she needed a break, a pleasant afternoon out.

She came out of the house and came to the driver’s side of my car. “I’ll

drive,” she said.

Some people enjoy driving, I’m not one of them… but right now I was

thinking about her.

“That’s alright Honey, I’ll drive, you just relax.”

“No, really Ma, I want to drive.”

“Uh, uh, I won’t hear of it, today is your day off. So, what do you think,

Macy’s?”

We have a new baby due in the family soon and I was shopping for gifts of

layette and nursery items. But I was no longer familiar with baby gear so I

asked Debbie to come with me.

I drove along Sunrise Highway and approached the ramp to the main road.

I could see that it was clear but I couldn’t enter because the white Corolla

in front of me wasn’t moving.

“Go” I muttered, “Go!”

When she/he finally went onto the main road I drove onto the lane next to it,

and peered into the car; who was driving and why were they so slow?? I

stared at the driver, she stared back at me.

And then my attention was taken by the maroon SUV in front of me. There

was a big gap of empty road in front of it.

Why? Why? I thought.

Debbie was glaring at me, “ Why what?” she asked.

I didn’t realize that I had spoken aloud. That question has been asked since

time began; Why is the sky blue? Why was I born? Why are there wars?

“Why is that SUV driving so slowly!” I answered. “There’s no one in front

of it!”

I had to get out of that lane! I sped up and moved into the other lane to pass

the SUV, ignoring Debbie's exaggerated pressing of her foot onto an

imaginary brake.

As I passed I stared at the driver of the SUV. He also stared back at me.

“You know, Ma, there’s a word for what you’re doing. It’s called ‘Road

Rage’.”

“I don’t have ‘road rage‘, I’m just …interested…y'know, in human

behavior…”

“You mean like social research?” she said.

“That’s it, thanks!”

We pulled into the Macy’s lot and started looked for a parking spot.

“Over there, someone’s getting out” said Debbie.

“Good!” I pulled closer and waited. But the car didn’t move. I waited

another minute and a half and then tapped the horn, the driver turned and

waved me away.

“Oh no you don’t!” I unhooked my seat belt and reached for the door

handle.

Debbie held my arm, “Where are you going?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“Forget about him.” She pointed, “There’s another open spot.”

“Oh no! I’m going to talk to him…and by the way, now it’s ‘road rage’ ”.

The driver of the car, a young man about the same age as my son Steve, was

on his cell phone. He smiled at me, “I’m talking to my Mom,” he said. “I

call her every day.”

“That’s sweet,"I purred, and waltzed back to my car.

“He’s talking to his mother,” I told  Debbie, “ he calls her every day.”

She didn’t hear me, she was all scrunched up and talking on her cell

phone; “It’s horrible” she was saying…“horrible.”

“Who are you talking to? What’s ‘horrible’?

There was no answer, just a groan.

I parked in another spot and we went into the store. With Debbie's

 help I found some nice things in the layette department; onesies,

 a lovely blanket for the bassinet, and an infant car seat. The order

 would be shipped right away.

“Now we’ll have a good lunch” I said, backing out of my parking spot and

following the arrow that pointed to the exit out of the mall. Two lanes were

feeding into one, A car horn blasted behind me.

“Ma, you cut in front of her!”

“I had the Right of Way!” I said. I opened the window and called “Right

Of Way!”

“Get a license!” answered the angry driver behind me.

“People are so rude... notice that?” I said to Debbie,

“More social research?” she said dryly.

At the diner we were seated by a sunny window. “Okay” I

 said brightly, “What would you like?”

She shook her head, “ I’m not really hungry” she said, listlessly.

“Are you alright?” She looked so stressed… I had thought that an

afternoon out like this would be good for her.

“Honey,” I said, “I hate to ask… my knee is acting up. Do you feel well

enough to drive on the way home?”

She broke into a smile, “Sure, no prob.” she said, and picked up

the menu, “They have the best Greek salad here!”

                                                         THE END

Pieces of Wood

　

                                               PIECES OF WOOD
    　

“Ma, this room is bursting at the seams,” said my daughter Debbie when she

came into the den.

This was in response to my call for help, “SOS! I’m drowning… in

papers!”

My room had to accommodate all the things that came with me from a

one family house that had an attic and a basement; including a computer,

printer, related instruction manuals, folders with insurance documents,

Medicare notices, etc. Plus the closet full of assorted stuff years in the

making.

‘Downsizing’ has it’s… well …downside.

Her idea was to dispose of the things in the closet that I no longer needed

thereby making room for the things that were not in the closet but should

be, rather than strewn on tables and stacked on the floor. It wasn’t going to

be easy for me, she had that gleam in her eyes and I knew what it meant,

but I was desperate.

“Before we start on the closet,” she said, “why don’t we tackle the

bookshelf?”

“What do you mean… ‘tackle’? I asked.

“Y’know, organize it, discard some books...it looks messy.”

“My books are off limits,” I said.. “and I like the way it looks.”

True, the books were placed every which way, up, down, and sideways,

but each shelf had it’s own subject; American History on the top shelf,

poetry under it, then novels, and on the bottom shelf were the books with

miscellaneous subjects; ‘The Backyard Birds of North America’, ‘One Pot

Meals’, ‘Miss Piggy’s Guide to Life’.

“My books are off limits” I said again.

After a long stare, she raised her hand,“ No prob.”

The first thing we took out of the closet was the stacks of travel magazines.

I didn’t read them any more, and my travel journals and slides had their

own special cabinet. So we took the magazines, tied them up and

set them aside for the recycling bin. It was a ‘good thing’, not only for the

paper, because I dearly love trees, but maybe someone seeing them might

take them home. Armchair travel ( at a certain age) is a close second to

the real thing, isn’t it?

Maps. Two boxes full. On every trip I picked up maps of the country, city,

state, or a street map. I carried one in Athens, and we followed the streets to

get us to the uphill road to the Parthenon. In Amsterdam the street map

guided us all around the canals of the city. With a twinge of nostalgia I tied

them all up too.

 A shoebox of old bills, LIPA, VERIZON, CABLEVISION, we tore them

up, into the garbage bag they went.

Then in the corner of the closet Debbie took out a plastic sandwich bag and

tossed it into the wastebasket.

“Wait”, I retrieved the baggie.

“What? What is it?” she asked.

“Pieces of wood” I said, trying not to sound as though I were talking to a

Pre-K class.

“I know they’re pieces of wood,” she sounded as though she were talking to

seniors plus in a retirement home, “but why do you want them?”

I studied the bag of the 2 inch squares of wood, turning it around in my

hand, remembering when I was having my kitchen redone; the old cabinets

and counter tops were being pulled out and the new ones installed;

there were things that the workers discarded. I took the wood pieces, but I

don’t recall the reason why. What craft project would I use them for?

“ It isn’t that I want them,” I explained, “it’s just that I might need them.”

“For what!!?

I recognized the tone of impatience in her voice. It was hunger.“ Let’s go

have lunch, I made a Caesar Salad.”

“O.K. and then we’ll finish here. We’re on a roll! “So,” she asked, on our

way into the kitchen “why do you want…uh, need those pieces of wood?”

I have three children, all grown, with families of their own. And all of them

with good minds, good values and no shortage of self confidence. And

stubbornness. They got that trait from me, I thought, and if I want to keep

those pieces of wood, I will!

We had a nice lunch, both of us carefully avoiding the sensitive subject at

hand; what to keep, what to get rid of, and how to get Mom more

organized.

Next, we almost pitted wills over the stacks of old newspapers, some

yellowed with age.

“And you’re saving these because…?” she asked, with a look of concern.

“Hmm, not sure.” I took some at random, why did I keep them? An article

that interested me, a great movie review, election results of past years? ( I

am a political junkie).

“Ma,” she said speaking slowly for emphasis, “we live in the age of

information, we can access all the news we want without these dusty old

newspapers. It’s all there on the internet! I’ll show you how!”

She was so adamant, so sure of herself , my reluctance just melted away. We

tied up the papers and put them near the front door.

Next in the closet were two large boxes of records and albums, the old 78’s,

45’s and 33’s. True, I no longer had a victorola, (is that word still used?) but

I could buy one. “When was the last time you listened to these?” she asked.

Not for years, I thought, "What if I want to… someday…?”my voice trailed off.

“You can! “ she said with the superior air of her generation (and all the

generations younger than mine, including my 12 year old grand-daughter).

“You know all this music is on CD’s now, “she pointed to my shelf of them,

“so you don’t need all these big bulky albums. And did you know you can

even hear them on YOU TUBE?”

I didn’t know.

She looked thru the 78’S.  “Wow! These are the original recordings, Nat

King Cole on his Capital label, Perry Como on RCA Victor. COOL!”

Sure, I knew they were ‘cool’. But more than that, as I picked up one after

the other, a flood of memories swept over me; Patti Page, Johnny Mathis,

singing songs where every word had meaning to a teenager…of teenage

love and heartbreak.

“Ma, you should keep these. This is your music, from when you were

 uh…young.”

“ ‘Er‘, you mean. young ‘er.’ Hmm, give me a second.” That was all the

time I needed to take the pulse of my emotions; No, not feeling sentimental.

“They can go” I said… but I can’t throw them away!”

She didn’t answer me, didn’t even look up; she was busy on her cell phone,

not talking, texting. Must be important, I thought, we’re right in the middle

of our cleanup. I watched as her thumbs bounced over the tiny keyboard.

Are they all going to get arthritis of their thumbs someday? When she was

done, the funny little sound came from her phone. She read it and beamed,

“That was Matt . I told him about your records, he said he’d love to have

them. We have plenty of room now.”

Upsizing has it upside!

 My son in-law, Matt, is a history buff of pop music, and a professional

musician himself.

“ AND you can listen to them at our house any time you want!”

“SOLD!” It was the perfect win-win solution. We carried the 2 cartons to

the front door.

But when we took out the next large box she knew, being a Mother herself,

that all the old Mother’s Day and Birthday cards from her and her siblings

were sacrosanct. So too were cards from my grandchildren, from the ages

of four years old and up with their own drawings (scribblings) in watercolor

and crayons. Did I detect in some a budding Jackson Pollack, another

Grandma Moses and one with a hint of a Marc Chagall in his future? Or

was this just a grandparent's view as are all grandparent’s that think that

their grand-kids are just brilliant! That carton went back into the closet.

The last things were my photo albums. She chuckled as she looked at

pictures of herself with her brother and sister at Rockaway Beach.

"Here’s one with Dad,” she said. “I remember that day, we were building a

sand castle, almost finished with it when a big wave came and swallowed it

all up and we had to start over again. Ma, I’ll take these albums, we’ll scan

these snapshots onto a CD, then we can all see them on our computers.”

“Really?” I was impressed. But I was also suspicious. What were her real


motives, to discard the big bulky albums and replace them with some discs

that take up less room in my closet? Uh, uh, I thought, I can throw my

travel magazines, my maps, and my newspapers. You can have my 78’s and

45’s and 33’s, but you may not have my soul nor my pictures of you as a

small child, of your brother and your sister… of us a long time ago, when

life was simpler and I, in my innocence, thought that only good things lay

ahead.

She read my mind. “Ma, chill. We’re just scanning the snapshots, I’ll bring

them all back!”

I breathed.

So the day ended on a high note. We carried the photo albums and the

cartons of records out to her car, took the magazines, newspapers and maps

out to the recycling bin. Finally, we organized the folder files and important papers

that were strewn all around and put them into the closet. The room no longer looked

like a Nor’easter had blown through my open window.

She put up her hand for a high five. I hugged her instead. “Thanks honey,… maybe

we can ‘tackle’ my bedroom closet next time.”

Her eyes lit up, that was a challenge she would love!

But as we left the room I caught her looking longingly at the bookshelf.

“My books are off limits,” I droned.

And the sandwich bag of wood? Back into the closet it went, I know I can

use it someday for something.
                                               
　
                                                   THE END