My Bestemoer

Story Name: My Badd-Ass— Bestemor Bestemor... Grandmother— or I call her Bestemor (which is Danish for grandmother), in her youth, was a stout and tall woman-- she was built, with a fair-freckled complexion, and strawberry blond curls made from tight rollers that tumbled to her shoulders. She had a sort of Nichole Kidman air-- but stronger, as she walked down the street--a real head-turner. She’s always been a stoic lady— it’s likely in her Scandinavian blood. Hardheaded and stubborn—it’s probably where my family and I get our tenacity and unique ways. She married a black man in the midst of the civil rights movement in San Francisco, she was disowned by her Danish parents, and she took up the Baha'i faith-, which was rather uncommon in the 1940’s. She believed in acceptance and oneness-- Close your eyes to racial differences, and welcome with all the light oneness-- Bahá'u'lláh. She insisted on birthing four children despite the desires of others, and tricked her husband into fathering four girls. She fabricated stories about being forced to ride in labor across the newly constructed Bay Bridge to an Oakland Kaiser because any delivery of biracial children in San Francisco was forbidden; this much later came out as yet another one of her capricious and passive-aggressive lies of narcissistic convenience and desperation. For us children, her anticipated presence was not that of a typical grandmother— of one who spoils you with outings to places tabooed by your parents, and who and adorns you with knick-knacks and trinkets, dresses and princess paraphernalia that you would only be able to obtain by saving weeks of allowances. Not that I would actually have wanted any of that crap anyway-- I was the kind of kid who would have rather past time in solitude... in the tips of tree branches, gallivanting off in some sort of adventure daydream; or who would have rather run rampant with the boys, wreaking minor havoc in neighboring backyards. She was also not the type of bestemor for whom grandchildren would await eagerly at the windows-- fighting for space, noses peering just above the sill to capture the first glimpse of her awkward gate approaching the front steps. But rather, she was the type of house guests for whom youngsters would dread the first audible putts of her infamous motor charging up the driveway, and of whose company was more like that of a disgruntled in law, for whom in our case, we had no choice but to have already married. She was Gestapo Grandma-- a disciplinarian to spare. And for this matter, our quirky Christmases, midsummer family traditions, and our intermittent impromptu visits were no exceptions. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * John John came into our life… I think it was one thanksgiving, one of those hazy years in my mid-teens-- you know-- during those times when nothing goes okay and nothing anyone says or does is right enough— or even close to what you want. No change is okay, not even for the better— no sameness either-- even to maintain any sense of stability— sameness is too stagnant. And no rightness too… and not necessarily any wrongness either— because everything is off-kilter just enough to be incessantly and unbearably irksome. To be honest, when I got wind of this new character, and even more so, the moment when he stepped past the threshold of our kitchen door, I hated the idea of a ‘new’ Bestafar-- in fact, I kind of resented the whole second ‘grandfather’ concept because my actual grandfather, Bestafar George, had never been included in any family gatherings; he was pushed to the side for the regular events then shoehorned back into our lives along the wayside-- outside of the normal extended family gatherings. I mean… why couldn’t he be more integrated? And why couldn’t people just get over their wretched pasts, and focus on the here and now, and each other in the present? Not only this, but compounding the issue, the residual rotting angst left from my parents decision to rip everything that mattered to me to shreds, and then their blatant inability to maintain any sort of sensible correspondence was still festering from the inside out. And throwing this new qazi-replacement grandfather, (as he had been presented) into our mix, was more of a blatant attempt to throw salt in the gaping gash than placate the throbbing residue angst. Who the hell were they to shoehorn this new dude into my family when Bestafar George was always forced to reside on the out. No one gave me as much of a heads up that he would be joining our family that evening. Still, everyone-- aunts and uncles welcomed him with smiles and open arms. John puffs his way up our front stairs. He is a round black man with a gap-toothed smile. Small dark freckles spotted his cheeks. “Howdy” he says with a sort of droll that is reminiscent of a bygone era. Seeing him appear out of the blue is bothersome-- especially while having to bend over backwards and dance around on a pin to include Bestefar. And... then, to top it all off, having to go out of our way to see our own father-- all while doing it with a feigned smile--- uhhhh-- say hello to our new holiday standard—it’s pushing too irksome to handle. So needless to say, the Erika jury is out on this John character. I’m not keen on his presence, and I’m not keen on everyone-- my mother, my aunts, and my grandmother’s brother, Great Uncle Vernon liking him either. I think I’d rather be in my room. But, since they are welcoming him with such warmth, bringing him in with such smiles and Gumbs-family style kisses-- the type we reserve for only our closest of kin—lips puckered out producing that ‘mmmmmmmm” sort of sound prior to making contact; I swallow and let my pride slip down my throat. Maybe I’ll give him a chance... Across the kitchen from the two rekindled love birds, I perch myself on a barstool. Sitting at the chopping block table, I distract myself from the happenings across the room by shoving my face with brie and crackers. I notice the two out of the corner of my eyes, bickering like ancient pals, she preparing the vegetables and him, tending to the bird. I watch him evoke from her the beginnings of a repressed smile, that for all my existence, has been firmly sequestered beneath her stoic expression. This is a Bestemor I’d never seen anyone muster with any success. Well… maybe he’s alright… just maybe… I eat some more brie. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Blackberries Childhood summer days… seamless moments--- the warm sinuses of July’s sun and the endless wonders of August’s evenings strung together into one boundless summer daydream. Well— that was until it was abruptly disrupted by the low rumble of her ford pinto winding its way up the driveway, and signaling an abrupt disturbance in our summer freedom. Everything, every moment, every fluid sinus was interrupted by a period of Gestapo grandma— of being watched. Being regulated. Being monitored, and being seen and not heard as she would have put it. And... should we not obey her very old-school-disciplinary ways, our reprimand would not be forgotten, and our earnest, yet green contributions would be reduced to unimportant child’s play. Tin and worn-out, plastic, beach bucket buckets are piled high at the head of the blackberry patch. Hedge clippers, garden gloves, and pruners all are piled in the neet heap-- all ready to trench a passageway through the treacherous bramble so we can make the most of our summer berry picking. Berry picking was a hallmark of summer traditions, yet it developed a sentiment of angst beyond that just of the thorns, which incessantly caught at your clothes and hair if you didn’t implement just the right techniques to admonish them beneath your feet. The bushes in a way seemed not to be the only ones nitpicking and pestering your childlike ways in a manner that suggested that maybe you should be doing something else... C.J is still in the house; I’m waiting, giggling in anticipation to receive directives from the ‘powers that be’ as to how we should begin our task. I gaze at each pail; in my mind, I can picture my little hands grasping the child-sized pruners as I began to cut a perfect path through the Himalayan bramble. For a moment, a thought bubble emerges and hangs dubiously over my head. It contains my bestemor’s face and pride beaming down for getting things started on my own. But it bursts with an instantaneous ‘pop’ as my Id emerges, and admonishes that thought in an I know better than to get started before I’m told what to do tone. “ERIKA...? ERIKA?” I could hear their voices echoing inside my mind. “No... you do not know what you are you doing! You need to wait.” I pause. Getting reprimanded and being sentenced to my room for the initiation of our berry picking tradition is not exactly how I had imagined beginning this summer episode. I wait. I tiptoe up to a lush, dangling nearby berry and pull it from the bush. This one, so ripe it falls into a stained mush in my fingers. It goes in my mouth and its mild sweetness floods my tongue. My eyes widen and I scan the thorny bramble for second equivalent treat. The next nearest cluster is just beyond my reach-- at least without the pruners. I toy with the next nearest-dangling bundle. These berries are not as lush as the first; it’s a melange of red, unripe, sour drouplets with a few mildly sacrin flavors. I reach out and snap the blackest one from the sepal. I examine the berry-- surely I cannot eat all the berries if I am to be appreciated and considered a mature and helpful hand. The thought passed through my mind like sand through a sift. I add one berry to the buckets just a few feet away and pop the second berry in my mouth. I hear the rest of the crew trotting down the stairs beneath the orange-blossom arbor. They find me arabesque-stretched out, fingers poised for a dangling treat, using one foot planted firmly on the ground to sequester the upwelling shoots, while my other foot is outstretched behind me as a counterbalance for my reach. Bestemor’s voice cut through my focus. “We are going to cut straight down towards the street, then just beyond the edge of the grapefruit tree, hang a sharp right to try and make the most of both sides of the patch.” My mom hands me my child-sized pruners. “These are your dear,’ she says in her gentle motherly tone. “You have to unclip this latch to release the blades. Then make sure you squeeze-- its gonna take some elbow grease.” I nod and take the tool. The rubber handles are difficult to grip. I play with the latch and squeeze and open the blades a few times before taking a practice snip at a nearby shoot. Then— there it is! I zero in-- score man! They are just hanging there-- super juicy and black-purple. I make my way through using a technique that I had mastered in years prior, one that employed a judicious and simultaneous combination of stomping and clipping to avoid any thorn- topped shoots smacking your way. Approaching my score-- I work my self up for the praise I’m about to receive upon presenting a bottom-filled bucket of lush berries. Knowing they’d be ecstatic for my recovery, I pull the berries from the bush, admiring each’s beauty carefully, pondering if it would be better for jam at Christmas or now in my tummy. One berry-- ‘Plop’… at the bottom of the bucket. Two, three berries fall into my hand simultaneously. ‘Plop’... ‘pink’ they also fall into the pail next to the first round berry. I reach for the next cluster. One.. two… three… four more all into my hand. Each with a unique roundness and with a unique set of red drupletes, which add the unique tartness of my mother’s jam. For sure one berry can be sacrificed for the momentary pleasure of summer. I bring the bundle to my face and peel my lips around the juiciest of berries. “Stop that young lady!” I hear a familiar and snappy voice reprimand. “Do you think we’ll have enough for jam if you eat to your heart’s content before we bring them into the house.” My green eyes meet her piercing blue ones. Guilty… Red-handed… My mouth and hands stained purple to tell all. “Uhhhh hugh’ she retorts, “and how many berries do you have in that pail of yours now?” I turn the bottom of pail towards her with pride. “And…” she says. “See… No more eating. Just get picking-- we don’t have all the time in the world and we won’t have enough berries for the jam if they all end up in your tummy before Santa Lucia Day.” I know not to say anything to my Gestapo; my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach-- joining up with that last berry I’d eaten. Children should be seen and not heard… I hear her disciplinary voice ring and dissipate between my ears drums. I turn my back and continue picking. Then I gallivant off in a vivid daydream about finding the lushest bundle to prove my worth, and yet again try to earn the admiration of my bestemor. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Santa Lucia Winter warmth… hot ovens, flickering fires, cozy hearths, and twinkling trees. It was like a toasted marshmallow-- cool and crispy on the outside and warm and ooozy sweet on the in. The week before December 13th, Santa Lucia was always a week of baking at the house on Dale Ave. It was a time where my brother and I got to embrace our Scandinavian heritage and participate in a winter processional celebration of light and song. My mother with my grandmother helped prepare the baked goods and paraphernalia for us youngsters so we could take part in the morning tradition of serving sweet saffron buns with jam and coffee to my father early on the morning of December 13th. But our elders never stopped there, they did not just make enough buns for the family, they made enough buns for the neighborhood and everyone at their workplaces as a warm tokin of holiday blessings. Stockpiles of golden breads piled atop the counters in the mudroom. Steamed windows from piping ovens producing tray after tray of popular golden breakfast treats. The breakfast nook, our dining room table, all flat piano surfaces, and our hearth were all usurped for holiday bread production. Our regular place of dining was rendered useless for eating amidst trays of rising buns— piles of Lucia dough and counters dusted with all-purpose flour. Like all children, C.J. and I were no exceptions, we relished in the right amount of adoration and praise our elders devoted to us. Bun making was a time when we both felt the draw to learn to perfect our family tradition, so when the time came, we could then, in turn, take it over and pass it on to our children. When we returned from soccer practice or completed our homework, we b-lined of the rolling table, formally kitchen table, to do our part in our traditional family obligations. I run in the door. My putrid yellow uniforms splattered with mud from our recent game. “Howdy youngster,” remarks a prim lady who’s sitting rigidly in the corner of our kitchen nook. “Hi Bestemor!” I reply in a reflexive manner. Without ducking, I skip beneath the low cut ceiling and around the corner and into my parent’s closet-like bathroom. I climb the toilet seat to reach the sink and turn the hot-water nozzle. I wet my hands in the cold stream-- just enough to release the slippery film from the bar soap. Grabbing the cube of ivory, I squeezed and released the bar, pulsing my palms just enough to allow the ivory cube to spin from the convulsions in my palms-- lathering my palms in a thick lather of soapy film. Nearly fulfilled with tactile pleasure, the slick and soft sensation of the soap between my fingers releasing an equally pleasurable warm tickling sensation from the inside of my body out, I pace the now reduced bar back in it’s dish by the sink. Rubbing my hands together-- I stop only to pull apart my palms and produce a near diamond-shaped window with a perfect shimmering, iridescent bubble left in the negative space. Enamored by its ephemeral nature-- here one moment, gone the next, but yet I could produce another sister entity, just as special and of equal beauty immediately after, yet never identical as the one prior-- it is kind of like each of our lives-- in a constant state of change and regeneration, yet, never are two human forms--- or life forms for that matter are ever exactly alike. Holding on to this precious shimmering beauty, I blow gently against its threshold, paying careful attention as to not blow too hard and in a careless instant, spoil the current sublime configuration. I watch the film expand and stretch in waves from the edges of my pinkie fingers-- in a particular, and uniquely beautiful extension of its former self. “Erieee” a voice calls from across the house. I quickly shove my hands in the piping water as I’ve no desire to get reprimanded for ‘playing’ in the sink; I instantly rub the residual film from my hands. Bestemore is still perched on the chair in our kitchen nook in the same manner I’d seen her last. Her back is straight as a board and two feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor. Her arms positioned in a near perfect ‘L’ , elongating and contracting ever so slightly to roll out the snake-shaped dough before hooking the formation back on itself into the standard ‘S’ shape. I maneuver myself around the marble table and into the seat at the back of the nook, across from my grandmother. The marble table is sprinkled with a dust of all purpose flour and a mound of golden saffron dough is piled near center. I reach for the mound in the center of the table and pull a hand full of the sweet smelling dough from the pile. “Are your hands clean young lady?” my grandmother questions sharppy? “What did ya think I was doing around the corner?” I think. I can’t quite figure out why, but the timing of her question really bothers me. “Um yeah.” I say to her. I drop a piece of dough in my mouth as my eyes meet hers from across the slab to prove that I am not fibbing. Her eyes grow big in disapproval as I chew the gummy, squishy, mob in my mouth. I begin rolling the glutinous substance into a snake, in a pushing and rolling motion to mold the elasticity into place and remove the bumps and bubbles. I glance over at Bestemor’s snake. Her snake is smooth as the rolling slab-- not a visible bump or bubble in her bun. She is beginning to turn the ends opposite each other into ‘S’ formation. I look down at my awkward-looking bumpy-disfigured snake. There is far too much dough on one end, it looks like an actual snake, with a triangle-shaped head. I pull the excess dough and glance over my grandmother. She is placing her completed roll on the baking sheet. I pop the dolub in my mouth. Then, in a flash-- smack! The whip of her Gestapo fingertips smacks the back of my hand and the sting radiates through to my fingertips. “If you eat all the dough,” she pipes with her back turned, “your insides are going to stick together.” “How does she see me?” The thought reverberates through my head. “Besides, what’s it to her if I eat just a little bit of dough?” The thought continues. I continue rolling, pressing ever so slightly as I apply pressure to the rope-like section of dough in front of me. Bestemor turns sharply on her heal, grabs a half handful of Lucia dough and places the next blob in front of me. “There,” she says in a curt tone, “There’s your play-dough. Leave the rest for the baking.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * John 2 John came and has been in our life to stay. He was at our birthdays, summer festivities, and holiday gatherings. During my episodes of black hair, smudged eyeliner, and being a vegetarian, John was always perplexed as to my wardrobe choices and as to why I wouldn’t eat his barbecue dishes. “But I brought chicken!” he smiles and says earnestly, “Now don’t tell me that you don’t eat chicken now.” “John, I’m a vegetarian,” I tell him. “But… it’s chicken.” He looks at me with a query eye, “Chicken too… Oh my” his reply bares a slight hue of dismay. A tinge of guilt hits my gut, but I know it will not be as bad as the twisting pain in my stomach after I eat dead bird for the first time in years. “But I made all this barbeque,” he looks at me, “now don’t tell me that you are not going to eat any of it?” His eyes are round with disappointment. “I’ll eat the vegetables,” I tell him. “Did you bring any veggie burgers?” I reply, attempting to placate the situation and sidestep any other attempts to coax me into consuming post poached animals. John and I didn’t always see eye to eye. We also never really had that deep connection like the one I had with Great Uncle Vern-- always bickering and snapping at each other in that well-meaning, yet ever snarky way. But, I do have to say, he made my grandmother smile— smile in a way that I'd never seen her beam before, and laugh out loud in a manner that I had yet to see from anyone else. She was happy. He made her happy-- the sort of happy that reverberated profound bliss. And, to top it off, he was always really good to me and my brother. In fact, so good, that at first, it was easy to feel a tinge of resentment that our own biological grandfather lacked any initiative what so ever to plan a get-to-gether let alone, an iota of foresight to display the same genuine thoughtfulness that John did. John was an amazing craftsman, especially when it came to wood products. One year, he made this chess board from hand. He cut the squares from maple and birch and juxtaposed the colors of the wood to form the checkered pattern. Upon hearing that Bestafar George, my biological grandfather, had shown my brother how the pieces moved and that he had developed a predilection for the game, John gave us, over his other surrogate grandchildren, the handmade board game for Christmas. He gave me the pieces and the board itself to my brother-- a clear dual present. To this day the board is a centerpiece in our living room. Guests visit and the pieces are moved over the handcrafted squares as an ever-lasting memory of his warmth and inclusion we were to him, and him to us as family. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Pajamas “Bestemor’s coming down to be with you while I’m away,” Mom tells me and my brother one evening at dinner. I roll my eyes, “Mom! I’m nearly fourteen, C.J. and I are fine afterschool-- we fess for ourselves, we get our selves around town, and we take care of the house.” As I say this, part of me feels nervous about the notion of being left alone, while another part urnes to prove that I can do it-- a sort of test of my maturity. “It is not that you two can’t be left alone, I just need to know that someone is here with you in the evenings,” she replies in her mother-like tone. “You two can do what you do-- make your dinners, lunches, do your schoolwork, but she will be here and you two will mind your manners.” Thank god my mother didn’t expect her to cook. The last time she made sandwiches, there were fish heads sticking out of the edges and when she volunteered to bring dessert for Christmas, she was in the midst of her fat-free kick, and showed up a sugarless, fat-free, red and green Jell-O cake to the dinner celebration. Needless to say, no one ate cake that evening. “Hugh” I sigh and sink into my chair. I silently plan to casually and collectively make myself as sparse as possible. The downstairs is a fantastic escape when she gets on her Gestapo kick and when there is no one there to reel her back in. It’s about half-past eight. I dry myself from my shower and pull on a clean pair of night time sweats. My stomach starts growling just as I hear her pull in the driveway and slam the door. I ponder my angle of action to avoid confrontation, minimize contact, but yet remain polite. I really don’t want any conflicts-- Kim and I are meeting to head up to the mall tomorrow to search for the final touches for our Halloween costumes and I really don’t need that taken away. I climb over my brother who is intensely engrossed in a game of SimCity; his awkward pre-adolescent legs sprawled out over the steps for the upstairs. “Good evening youngster” she greets me as she walks in the door. “Hi Bestemor,” I say; I walk over and give her the Gumbs-style kiss and skit back around the counter to continue putting a frozen bean and cheese burrito in the microwave. “That’s all you’re eating?” she grumbles. “Surely you need to eat more than that. I just picked up some things at the store.” She places some sausages on the counter. “No, Bestemor, I’m fine… really. This is enough.” I say, half not wanting to engage in conversation, nor caring to remind her that I don’t eat meat. I watch my dinner spin on the tray through the glass-- paying careful attention that it doesn’t balloon up and make a hot and uneatable mess all over my plate. “Kim and I need to grab some things at the mall tomorrow” I remind her. “We can take the bus.” “No you’re not!” she retorts sharply. I look at her confused. I thought this had all been already arranged. “Why-- not?” I query. “We do this on the regular-- I have a bus pass. We --” “I’m gonna drive you” she interjects. “You ladies go do what you need, and I’ll wait for you outside. Then I’ll drive Kim home afterward.” “I..I..I’m sorry?” I say, not sure if I had heard her correctly; a tinge of confused frustration began to spark in my gut as my mind flashed through the possible Gestapo-impasse issues. “You heard me. I’ll drive you girls, and you just go do what you need to do at the mall, and when you are done, I’ll drive you ladies back home. I’ll be waiting in the lot.” “Bestemor. No!” I tell her-- my jaw at this point is already on the floor. “This was arranged-- Kim and I are taking the bus.” The microwave bings and I peer through the glass. My dinner has boiled into a brown soupy mess-- ruined. “Bestemor, Kim and I are taking the bus tomorrow after school. We can get there ourselves, we are going to take our time so I do not think you will want to wait for us anyway. We will be back by six. I have a pager,” I show her the purple little cube that has been hanging on the inside of my pocket. “You can page me if you need to.” I point to the number by the phone. Bestemor maneuvers in front of the microwave. “Now you listen here young lady, there will be no more of this attitude from you or else you will be in bed without dinner.” “Fine!” I reply-- it’s wrecked anyways. I scoot around her, head down the stairs and jump over my brother’s awkward spider-like legs, sprawled out and always and in my way-- just like everything else is in my life-- in the way of me getting where I need to be-- like to the mall, with my friend, to buy my Halloween accessories. I slam the door to my room. It reverberates through the house. Plunk plunk plunk her footsteps pad down the stairs. Uhhhh god, what does she want now. My door flings open and she stands, arms crossed in the threshold. “Yes…” I say to her. “Why aren’t you in bed?” She demands? “I’m getting there,” I tell her. “I just got a few things to do.” “You got one thing to do,” she says “and that is to get into that bed.” I, at this moment, can only believe her audacity. Flashes of images, rendered from stories that my mother has told me about her youth, regarding fights over fish sticks that ended in brawls rolling on the floor, flash through my mind. “Bestemor, I’m getting there” I placate her. She continues to stand in the doorway. She doesn’t budge. A tinge of fear pierces my gut. What does she want? “Where are your P.J.s young lady?” She asks sharply. “Bestemor, I’m wearing them,” I tell her pulling at my hoodie. “You're sleeping in that? She retorts and struts to my dresser drawer. I watch her as she rummages around. Sifting through old t-shirts and underwear. After a moment, she pulls forth a pink onesie from years ago, one that I had long-since out outgrown, both in size and in style. “Here!” she says, proffering the strange-looking garment hanging from her palms. “Ummmmm… Bestemor, I’m not wearing that.” I say. “Put it on!” she retorts. “Bestemor, I really don’t want to. Why can’t I just wear what I have on? I sleep it sweat-- it’s the norm” I grimace. “Put them on!” she’s like a broken record. “Bestemor, I wear sweats all the time to bed--”. “These are pajamas.” She interrupts. “We wear pajamas to bed. Those,” she points to my garments, “are not pajamas. Put these on!” shoving the pink fleece onesie at my chest. I grab the garment and think whatever will make her leave me alone. I took to her in anticipation that she’ll shut the door so I can make the transformation. “Now!” She nearly spits this time. “Right here in front of me. I don’t want any monkey business” I hesitate. “Now!” She does not release her gaze from me until I completely strip down, and every inch of my naked, 13-year old insecurity is exposed to her piercing blue stair, and I complete the pajama transformation by zipping up the two-sizes too small garment, and hop into bed with the covers up to my ears. The door slams and the lights go off. I wait until I hear her footsteps fall above me. I get up and change back into my sweats. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The Casket John moved up to Penn Valley, a heaven getaway up in the California motherload. The estate was beautiful-- a ranch style home perched atop a hill. John always insisted that we come up-- it was as if we were his own biological children and nothing made him happier than to see our happy faces in his home. As the years rolled on, Bestemor spent more and more time in Penn Valley, and we saw less and less of her. One day, news came that John had fallen ill-- he had contracted colon cancer and Bestemor, with her usual tenacity, stepped in to see that he was cared for; and as was typical, she remained stoic through his intense hospitalizations. Soon John stopped joining us for family gatherings, which meant we saw even less of her too. Then came the day that John passed. Growing up, with the exception of when she was around John, I never witnessed Bestemor show much of any emotion. Placid she remained that crisp fall afternoon in 2011 as we emerged from our vehicles at the Sky Lawn Cemetery. After the ceremony, I glanced over. She was standing motionless across the way-- eyes glazed over, staring blankly just beyond the casket. Her body stationary, but stiff and rigid as if she had been the one deceased. Her face expressionless— stoic as usual. I approached her and tentatively and slipped my hand into hers. The crisp mist-filled breeze whisked our hair. We just stood there together, grandmother and granddaughter, hand in hand, as we had been many times before in our lives. But this time it was different, her body began to convulse, and as they lowered the casket, tears poured down her cheeks. I squeezed a little harder like I did when as I did when I was a kid, asking for security as we marched across the street, my little hand in hers, on our impromptu trips to get gummy bears. And for the first time in my life-- for a person who had always prided herself on knowing what to do, and possessing the courage to tackle the next situation with confidence, I realized in that moment, I really, really did not know if what I was doing was right. So I just stood there. Me with her, two generations, grandmother and granddaughter, supporting each other in ways that were so opposite from the ways past, yet in some ways, so exactly the same. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Brunch “Where are we going?” “Bestemor, we are going to brunch. We are taking a Taxi” I reply, deliberately replacing the word Uber for Taxi, as to avoid a second and unnecessary onslaught of cyclical questioning. “Who are we going with?” “We are going to meet Janet and Judy, and C.J. We are meeting them in downtown Redwood City.” “But, I don’t want to go. I’m tired.” she retorts with a tinge of impetuous contempt. “No! Bestemor, we are going.” I tell her using the same firm tone that I acquired during my years teaching preschool. “We have talked about this for the last few days. We are going!” I reiterate firmly. “We did...? Oh, dear...” Her tone has a slight melancholy ring. “I don’t remember.” I monitor her progress from across the room to ensure she is moving in a manner that is productive towards getting out the door. Five minutes pass-- she is pulling on her stocking. “Where are we going?” the conversation starts again. This is how interactions between my grandmother and I have been for the past five years. It is now November, 2019. I am 38, my mother, 68, and my grandmother is 90. Her memory is failing her. She has good days and not so good days. There are moments of clarity when she recalls tidbits from her recent past and when she can converse—fully lucid. But then, like that, in an instant, she is back to her opaque recollection of any past activity. So, for the most part, interactions with her are a series of circular conversation regarding the dealing in the present moment. Today, her two eldest daughters, and my brother and I are all meeting for brunch at Angelica's Cafe in Redwood City. Bruch is pleasant and the company is enjoyable, but confusion and the ambient noise are clearly agitating Bestamore. The dining room is crowded, tables are closely packed, and there is a bustle of ambient sound that makes listening to intimate, conversations an arduous task. “I want more coffee.” Bestemor pipes up. “Ok, we’ll get you some when our waiter comes by” mom taps her arm in reassurance. Our food comes; I get my plate of sautéed spinach, and my brothers and the others receive their omelets overflowing with toppings as is typical for my family. . “I want coffee!” my grandmother reiterates in her well timed manner. “Patience” I tease her. “We are getting it.” I smile and gaze into her pale blue eyes; it’s like our spirits are playing a childish game. Silently, we get each other-- snark meets snark and we both know it. “She doesn’t remember” my mother corrects -- befuddled by our bicker. “Coffee please,” I flag down our waiter and motion towards my grandmother’s cup. He pours the thick black liquid into her mug. She smiles and brings the white china to her purple-painted lips. “I know I don’t remember much these days” she sputters impulsively. We are all silent for a moment. “It’s ok.” I break the awkward quiet. “You remember the important things. You remember who all of us are!” “Oh, well yes I do!” she continues in a peppy tone. “There’s Jan-et, and Ju-dy,” she pronounces each syllable slow and with a precision that has a semblance of a past era. “And C.J.-- and…” her eyes meet mine-- the same sharp, baby blue gaze that reprimanded me as a child smiles another snarky smirk as she uttered “and… hmm… you are...Oh gosh...” She looks away in feigned disappointment. “That’s Erika, Mom. Your granddaughter.” My mom redirects in her well-meaning, yet unintentionally belittling manner, as she completely misses the nuance of our intrapersonal exchange. Bestemor scoffs at her daughter’s irksome and useless aide, takes another swing of her coffee and, in a heartfelt gulp, washes the memory away. The check arrives. It’s $118.57; the bill is approximately $20 a person. Bestemor can’t hear me, or maybe the price doesn’t register-- prices for her, in her mind, have remained static, prior to any inflation in the past 30 years. Driven by her persnickety and slightly peevish temperament, she insists on contributing her part. She reaches in her purse, removes a small purple coin pouch, produces a $5.00 bill, and pushes it earnestly, with two hands towards the center of the table. We all look at the bill. I scoot back in my seat and wonder, who if anyone will dare to embark on the task of letting my fickle and penny-pinching grandmother know that her brunch contribution is actually three times more than the five bucks that are sitting before us. “It’s more than that, Mom.” My mom says in her nonchalant— matter of fact tone. She reaches over, pulls a twenty that is poking from the corner of my grandmother’s coin purse, obscures the additional bill in the wad of cash from everyone’s contributions, and substitutes the wad for her credit card. Mom places the new payment in the black folder, sets it on the edge of the table for our waiter, and returns Bestemor’s $3 change to her wallet in a deliberate and rather conspicuous manner where to avert any potentially volatile outburst the frustration of not paying. We all wait... Bestemor looks confused. A moment later she smiles, takes another swig of coffee and asks, “Where is the bill? She pauses earnestly and repeats, “And… how much do I need to contribute...?”