“Grandma, what are you having for supper. . .Fried Chicken?”
“Mom what’s for supper?. . . . um, I think I’ll eat at Grandma’s”
Sitting in their tiny kitchen at enameled table
Grandpa in his undershirt—
Round and jolly, there’s a lot of him to love.
If he grew a beard, he could be Santa.
Standing at the sink watching Grandpa shave
“Wishy- Washy Grandpa”
The shaving brush swirls the soap into a foam
Shared with my 3 year-old face
Giving me a Santa-foam beard.
Dad worked nights, slept days.
I can’t be quiet, so I went next-door:
Sorted buttons while Grandma sewed.
By shape, by color, by size
Watched daytime TV; Arthur Godfrey, Art Linkletter
Playing solitaire while Dad slept and Grandma sewed.
Next door had four apartments filled with “old people”,
Frieda, the land-lady and grandparents on first floor.
Frieda Backoff: personified Scrubby Dutch.
Cleaning. . .always cleaning on her hands and knees with thick brown cotton stockings rolled below her knees
Bucket on wheels, scrub brush and cleanser, mop waiting for active duty.
Hair in a hairnet or a scarf, bossy but smiling with no teeth.
Speaking English with an accent and calling me “Strublekopf”
Siidewalks, porch are a blinding white from being scrubbed and so much sun!
Trees made a mess?---She cut them down.
Only place south of Tower Grove Park with sunshine all day.
Grass is thick—perfect for cartwheels and picnics on a sheet
No ants, no flies! 'Verboten"
Freshly painted garage with Grandpa’s garden at the side.
But, I felt unprotected with no trees to hide in, play around,
Shielding me from the sun, the wind, the rain—and prying eyes
In a neighborhood of apartments and flats.
Sitting outside in their city back yard
Barbecuing pork chops, pork steaks
Smelling the vinegar marinade called
“Wicker’s Barbecue sauce” made by Grandpa’s cousin.
Laughing, telling stores while we enjoyed a breeze on a
Summer’s day. Listening to a Cards game or the traffic on Arsenal
Squeal of brakes, rumble of street cars,
"It might be, it could be, it is a HOMERUN!"
Watching Grandpa drink his Schlitz, loving his full-body laugh
Sometimes fishing with Grandpa. . . .
“Come on, Jack, let’s go fishing’”
“Grandpa, when are we going to catch a fish”
“Stop talking, you’ll scare them away”
Friday night dinners at Grandma’s
Eating Grandpa’s fish—fried so crispy with cornmeal, but. . .
“Watch out for the bones”
Iced tea—too sweet—poured from a icy glass pitcher
Into brightly colored aluminum tumblers, sweating from the cold.
Sometimes a lemon meringue pie or a Lady Baltimore cake---yum!
Helping with laundry in a bright, glossy, Frieda-painted basement
Swish of the machine and then the WRINGER!
“Please can I put them through the wringer”
“Watch your fingers!”
Rollers smashing the clothes with water tumbling out
Clothes flattened but then shook out, brought to life before hanging out back
On a clothes line dancing in a breeze,
Shirts with arms pinned up singing hallelujah,
Curtains and pants on stretchers, drying wrinkle-free: stiff at attention.
I run weaving in and out of the sheets playfully flapping in my face.
Shopping for school clothes we never bought. . .
Looking at the styles, feeling the fabric, the smell of something new.
Quick, to the fabric department while we can recall the look, the feel.
Waiting for the bus to take us home to await the new clothes,
The whirr of Grandma’s sewing machine:
A new, but not store-bought dress
Doesn’t smell the same, everyone will know Grandma made it.
“Made better than store bought and
made with love,” said Mom.
