Runs wild, every thing I touch

So, at least for the moment, the gramps is fine. I was over for le friday night dinner tonight and he threatened to stick me with his fork. As a change of pace we put on one of his 'four hundred' records, Breakfast at Tiffanies and ate dinner to the romantic rumblings of orchestra and era. I was cleaning out my Papa's house today and found my Nana's wedding gown. It glowed white, was satin and had a train longer than five of my arms put togther. Poetry--right there. It was, beautiful though. Lace and so many tiny white buttons sewn artfully on the back. It's been odd, cleaning out a home that I've never known intimately. Cleaning a home of these people who, in a once removed way, brought me to life and who I never truly knew. And vice versa. I found this, well, gosh, it was a love letter. A real one. Now, now don't roll your eyes just yet. I mean, my papa wrote it five days after he and my Nana were married on some beachfront hotel stationary. Finding it presented a dilemna though. To read it--to voyuristically peer into their ( i want to say little love nest but that grosses me out), their in 45 years grandparentesque nest or let the letters and cards crinkle and die, to yellow for all eternity in thier shoebox homes. Clearly, there was no choice here. Sure, i'm cynical, but my grandparents seemed to have the real deal. And maybe it soured 6 days after the wedding, but maybe not. I was too young to tell when my Nana died.

.

You're alright, Kid. You're alright.

I was late, speeding to my weekly Thurs lunch with my grandparents when a thought hit me that made me sob silently for a good two exits. My kids will never know them. IF, i have kids. Fine. But, important people who for whatever reason unique to the universe I have not met yet probably will never meet them. My grandpa is 89 and my grandma is 90. And they are my second parents. Want to know why i'm so quirky? Come to friday night dinner, dine on lettuce and cucumber salads served in carved wooden bowls, served with half a century old silverware. Follow it with home-made chicken matza ball soup with bits of celery giving it that extra sweet, salty zest and then come the vegetables that have spent more time in my grandma's pot than in the ground so that my grandpa can swallow them without his teeth which he conveniently leaves soaking next to the sink. Now for the main course, bar-b-que chicken and rice with canned mushrooms. And of course the witty, politically incorrect repartee only my grandfather can provide. GAWD, he'll say to anything bad. DAMN MOE-RAHN, he'll say to anyone acting dumb.

HA. And good luck if you don't get him started on other ethnic groups--he's so offensive, it's funny. I've yet to meet anyone except my mother who doesn't instantly fall in love with this hard as nails, soft as his grandchildren's baby pictures grouch. He makes friends wherever he goes--even if it's the mechanic from mexico who he threatens to pay in PESOS for taking too long, asking him point blank if he's been taking a SIESTA all afternoon. The mechanic just laughs, and says Mr. Green, I see you later yes? Okay? And my grandpa says yes and hangs up. GAWD. DAMN MOE-RAHNS, he grumbles. And then he laughs, his eyes glinting with sparks of mischief because damnit if he doesn't know he's old enough to get away with anything.

My father got phone call tonight from his sister that my grandpa has an enlarged abdomen, an aneurysm in his abdomen and that he's in the hospital. They'll know more tomorrow. Tonight, as I close my eyes, I can hear his voice, gravely in my ear. I can smell his apple tobacco even with a cold. I've said something witty or something so naive I outdo myself. And he says, with that same eyeball glint, that same guilty smile,

"You're alright kid. You're alright."

I hope so.