Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer (Elmo & Patsy)

It was the summer of 1998. On Saturdays, we typically did yard work and then had a late lunch/early dinner. My mother thought it would be a special treat to eat on the back porch as we had been working all day. The house was cluttered as it always was in those days. After all, three kids ages 16, 13, and 10 lived there, respectively.

A week previous, our neighbors across the street had gotten robbed. There was a lot of talk as a mysterious jogger had suddenly been seen in the neighborhood. One neighbor asserted that this family, nicknamed the Clampets, had faked the robbery in order to get insurance. No one knew for sure.

We were a gun owning family, but not a vocal one. My Dad wanted us to know there were guns in the house and to respect firearms. He felt it was important. We also knew how to fire a gun if we had to. For a time my parents even belonged to what was known as a local “gun club.”

However, gun culture proved just to be too overwhelmingly stupid for my parents for lack of a better word. My dad wasn’t a hunter. Because of his career and work hours he didn’t have time, and my mom felt it was disgusting. Plus a lot of those folks were toying with starting their own militias and spouted Second Amendment rhetoric frequently. My dad studied it and knew while the Second Amendment was important, there was no truth to this hillbilly paranoia. When he explained no one was going to lose their guns anytime soon he was met with resistance.

My dad would explain as a lawyer this couldn’t happen, there would have to be many, many, many lawsuits before the Second Amendment was overturned. But they would interrupt him explaining one could never trust the government for very long. My dad would say they were giving the government too much credit. They couldn’t even deliver a piece of mail on time. But this fell on deaf ears, and some were really and truly losing their hearing because they were around guns so damn much.

Out of our family, the best shot was actually Skipper. I was a terrible shot. My skills behind a gun were tragic. Skipper could shoot a bullseye without effort. Later, she would go on to become a champion markswoman.

My dad’s whole thing was that yes, we owned guns but we were never to tell anyone. It was because he didn’t want them stolen or used in a felony. He also knew that if one of our moron friends accidentally shot themselves, it would be a shit show for lack of a better term. But yes, we had them and that was all we had to know.

After dinner, we were cleaning off the table. Dishes were about to be washed and the TV was about to be turned on. Auspiciously placed were my brother’s cleats from summer football practice. Not so far away was my notebook from writing camp. Pick up after ourselves…..ehhh……you know how it goes with kids.

Just then, there was a loud banging from downstairs.

“What was that?” My dad asked curiously.

“Nothing.” I said. “Probably some crap from Wendell’s football.” I said glancing over at my brother. While the season had yet to start, my brother had weights and other things he was using to buff up. Cumbersome and annoying, I had stubbed my toe on several.

There was a second bang, now it was more like a slam.

 “I think it’s the boxes we stacked.” Skipper said, referring to boxes of books we were getting rid of. These books were old, outdated encyclopedias in our basement that still referenced the former Soviet Union. My father felt they were obselete and we needed space for other things, so my mother, sister and I had stacked them one night while our dad was working late.

The noise grew louder. Now it was as if someone was walking. We all froze in panic.

“No one’s home.” A male voice was heard saying.

We all gasped in horror. Oh shit.

 “Guys, stay out here. Dad is going to get his gun.” My mom assured us.

Then she instructed, “If there is a group of intruders, run out the back deck. Run to the nearest neighbor and get help.”

Note this was before the age of cellphones so this all made sense.

My dad went and retrieved a firearm from a place in the house where it was hidden. Meanwhile, we were in the Florida room closes to the deck in case my father couldn’t shoot the intruders in time. These burglars might have been bad but they had never seen my dad when his was pissed. He was just a Western Pennsylvania man defending his home and he knew that at the end as a lawyer, he knew his rights and would get off.

Skipper began to cry. I held my sisters hand, and Wendell covered us both. “Keep it together. They can’t know we are here.” She said.  

“Beware mutherfuckers.” My dad said under his breath. “I will kill any sonvabitch that comes in my home.”

My dad’s dark eyes flashed. There was no way these intruders were making it out alive.

Sure, these guys might have been bad, but they never saw my dad when he was pissed let alone defending his home. My dad was a nice guy, but when you crossed him he could cut a bitch for lack of a better term. One former associate at his law firm referred to my dad as “Satan” because of the way he spoke to opposing counsel. Yet when someone who heard this story saw our Dad with us at a local restaurant, he could hardly believe it was the man he had heard so many horror stories about. Bottom line, you didn’t fuck with my dad and come out unscathed.

“If any of you see their faces before you run for it, remember them. They are going to ask you in court.” My mother instructed.

Wow Mom, way to make a bad situation even worse. My stomach lurched at the thought of the potential tragedy that was about to happen. My heart beat and I felt everything freeze. I got ready to run, bad ankle and all. Skipper could go the fastest and Wendell wasn’t notorious for his speed. My mom always tripped and fell when she got nervous. It was a tick she had. Gosh this was going to be a shit show.

And shit show it was.

The door opened and I was expecting a scene from what would be a 20/20 crime special in seconds. I expected tragedy. Instead I heard,  “Wendelin, that is no way to greet your mother in law!”

Fear disappeared and now we were just startled and amazed. My mom sprinted inside as my father dropped his gun to his side. The look on my dad’s face was priceless. Standing there was my Nuni, barely five feet tall with snow white hair and a light purple summer pants suit. On her head was a summer bonnet. Her lips had frosty pink lipstick. With her was a man who looked like the disenfranchised son of Charles Manson.

“MOM!” My mother said, shocked and pleasantly surprised. “You didn’t tell me you would be stopping over!”

“I tried to call but you didn’t pick up and your message machine was full. Here’s the book I promised you. You know the one about raising a teenage daughter with an interest in the arts.” My grandmother handed my mom the book.

Nuni continued, “It was from Barb.” Barb was my cousin’s wife. Their son had gone to film school and wanted my mom to have the book because I liked to write and work with puppets. He was currently living in LA with some girl from Brazil. The book was to give my parents hope and to assuage their fears about my dreams.

 “Get in here and give your grandmother a hug.” My mom instructed, trying to make the most of an awkward situation. Meanwhile, my embarrassed father disappeared to put his firearm back in the undisclosed location.

When he reappeared she said,  “Wendelin can’t kill me! He has to do my will first.”

“Who’s this?” My sister Skipper asked pointing to her friend. Her strawberry blonde hair had recently been cut and she was wearing her summer shorts and top.

“Oh this is Bob.” Nuni explained. “He’s a friend of Rachel’s from the Ren Faire. I saw him at the Walmart and he needed a ride.” At the time, Nuni worked as a greeter at Walmart. She was literally the mayor of the superstore. Nuni was so incredibly popular that she was even featured in several of their local television commercials.

Aunt Rachel worked at the Ren Faire. It had become her yearly gig and the only thing in her life that was constant. After breaking up with Rick and then running out on her wedding to Josh (subject of another blog) Rachel had sough solace in the Ren Faire. While my grandparents had blown their life savings on a wedding that was never to happen, they were glad their wayward creation was finding an outlet.

As for Aunt Rachel’s friends, they were notoriously nondrivers or had their license’s suspended for whatever reason, so Aunt Rachel was the chauffeur of the group. On this day, Bob needed a ride to wherever he was staying, probably a halfway house. Who knew…..

Either way, Nuni, who’s conduct never ceased to shock, awe, and amuse thought it was nothing short of hysterical that my father had almost shot her. Meanwhile, my father’s face was twisted in that state that was a mix between embarrassed, confused, and somewhat pissed. Nuni explained she would have knocked but when she parked her car, she saw the garage door was open.

Yes, Nuni was notorious for never using a front door let alone knocking. She had let herself in my Uncle Seth’s townhouse once because he left the back screen ajar. Needless to say he caught her youngest son and his wife Taylor sharing a moment of passion. Talk about killing the mood. Of course, Nuni freely and fearlessly relayed this story as my dad continued to stand there, mouth gaped open at this happenings of the day.

Minutes later, Nuni and Bob departed. My dad was pissed, but not for the reason we figured. Nevermind he had almost blown his mother in law’s head off. As he explained, , “A STRANGER CAME INTO MY HOUSE AND IT WAS MESSY! I WAS SO EMBARRASSED!”

“Honey…..” My mom said trying to calm him down.

“I WORK TWO JOBS TO KEEP THIS HOUSE GOING AND YOU GUYS SIT AROUND ALL DAY EATING BON BONS. I ASKED YOU TO CLEAN THE BASEMENT!” My dad roared.

My dad had not come from much and having strangers see his house messy always got under his skin. However, we didn’t know we were going to have company. My dad continued, “GRACIE, HOW COULD SHE! I ALMOST SHOT HER! I WASN’T PREPARED FOR COMPANY. THERE IS THIS FUCKING THING CALLED  A PHONE. YOUR MOTHER COULD USE A FUCKING PHONE! OR BETTER YET, A FRONT DOOR!”

My mother said nothing expect, “Sorry, you know how she is.”

“HOW SHE IS ALMOST GOT HER FUCKING KILLED!!!” My dad was on a roll. “AND THEN FOR THIS STRANGER TO SEE MY HOUSE MESSY, HOW DO YOU THINK I FEEL!”

“Dad the stranger was probably homeless, it’s better than he normally lives.” Wendell reasoned. We all nodded in agreement.

“Nuni is hardly a housekeeper.” I said. It was true. And if Bob had been to Nuni and Pop Pop’s house, our place would have been the Palace of Mr. Clean in comparison.

“It doesn’t matter what you think or feel at this point.” My mom said trying to smooth things over.

“You almost shot grandma!” I informed him. “How we feel completely matters.”

Skipper ran over and gave our dad a hug. He probably needed one after that. “How about this, lets red off the table and forget this ever happened.” My mom suggested. I thought she was in good spirits seeing her mother almost got shot. (Red in Pittsburghese means clean off).

My dad shook his head. “Okay, but April has to vacuum the basement and Wendell has to pick up first.”

“Why do I have to vacuum?” I protested.

“Because I said so.” My dad snapped.

Wendell and I marched down to the basement to clean. After that, my dad calmed down and the gun was returned to the undisclosed location. We watched some stupid Adam Sandler movie and the incident became a piece of the family’s woven fabric.

And from that point forward, we all remembered to close the garage when we were done for the day. That way, if someone got shot it was a burglar and not grandma.

Buy My Merch 

The Show That Never Ended

Yesterday I ended up visiting my Mema Ralph in the nursing home where she just moved. From what I had heard, the place was like the Taj Mahal of nursing homes. The way my relatives spoke of it, my 90 year old grandmother was living in the lap of luxury while us little people were forced to be working stiffs at the mercy of The Man who went back to their humble abodes at the end of the day.

Of course, moving Mema to assisted living had not been an easy decision. It came as a result of some health complications she had as a result of age. Also, with these health complications my Mema needed around the clock care, and she could not get that at her residence that she was living at. When she got the news she was being forced to leave her domicile, she did not give up without a fight. After moving her in, my Mema, who is wheelchair bound, tried to escape. The staff, worried, deemed her a flight risk. Meanwhile, there are only two places one can go from the nursing home. One is Lowe’s Home Improvement. The other is Kool Springs Golf Course. Both would have been incredible if she did make the escape. This flipped out my aunts and uncles, but her grandchildren thought this was amazing. So yes, my Mema is magic.

However, she has calmed down. Two weeks ago, I got news my Mema and some of the other residents of the nursing home were taken out for a day to the casino. Yes, my Mema Ralph was gambling. I know you are picturing a sweet, demure old woman. Think again. My Mema could rival a Dominican at dominos, and she would cut them if she lost. I have seen her in action. She made my cousin Jared who stands 6’2” and plays line for Case Western shake with fear. Mema was taking black jack just as seriously. So basically, now that she was in assisted living, she was shining brighter than ever.

I had seen my Mema the day before. Of course this was during my Thanksgiving Pilgrimage Marathon. I was on the road from 10:45 AM until almost 10 at night. People drove like idiots and the day was intense and had a lot of eating. However, it was also a ton of fun. I enjoyed seeing my cousins and being updated. I had also seen my Mema. However, the next day, although my Mom, Dad and I were tired, we decided to visit Mema one more time because I was travelling back the next morning. Plus we didn’t know if she had any visitors that day.

When we pulled up to the home, I saw it was more an estate than a home. There was a courtyard and fountain, a far cry from the state run nursing homes where children dream of condemning their parents everytime they piss them off. We signed in, and went to my Mema’s room. We knocked. No answer. My dad entered. When we got in, the Deadly Women Marathon was playing on Discovery ID. However, there was no Mema. Maybe one of my other concerned aunts and uncles assembled the same plan before my cousins returned to college or their perspective jobs.

Or maybe she had escaped to Lowe’s or Kool Springs. While it would shorten my father’s life span, it would be beyond words awesome if that was the case. So we went to the front desk to see what was the case. The perky looking attendant explained Mema Ralph was at Happy Hour. “Do they give them booze?” I asked my mom.

Mema Ralph could be pretty wild if she got a few in her. I had read about the STD rate in nursing homes. There was a lothario with pants up to his nipples with pick up lines and game waiting for a ride on those hot wheels she possessed. Despite what Mema Ralph says about being happily widowed, liquor is the eternal game changer no matter how old you are.

“Sometimes they do.” My mom said with a half smile, reminding me not to respond at all.

We went to the lounge, and a nice worker lady gave my dad, mom, and I chairs. Mema Ralph was sitting in a far corner enjoying the show, and we waved. She saw us and waved back. The residents were enjoying Ginger Ale and cake. Onstage, in front of the room entertaining, was a man singing to karaoke track. His hair was brown, but not a natural color one might have. Rather, it was purchased in Aisle 6 of the local drug store. His face had a tint to it, and I could tell he did a little Wayne Newton powder for one reason or another. The suit was an off blue, and his voice was somewhat off pitch and flat. However, he was engaging and seemed comfortable with the elderly crowd, a tough one to hold. I know this from experience. So aside from empathizing with him, I could appreciate that he was working his ass off.

The man sang a few songs and seemed nice enough. While I hold entertainers to a high standard, I can also appreciate someone sweating for a tough crowd like he was. The first story I heard him tell was, “When I was a young kid, I always dreamed of being in Casablanca, but I was too young to be in the movie. So it made me depressed. That is why at this moment, lets pretend we are all in the movie.” Okay, it made no sense but it was charming enough.

Then after that, the guy talked about playing in Vegas and recording an album. Was he someone of note? Hell if I knew. He kind of looked familiar. Then again, so does someone on a Most Wanted poster. So of course then he said, “Dean Martin only made a few films but he made it big with his concert appearances. He was like prune juice onstage…..he kept going.” My jaw went slack and I looked at my mother. Did this man legitimately crack a poop joke in front of a packed crowd of old people? Granted, the whole place probably had prune juice as a dietary staple but still. When the crap jokes start, there is only one direction things can go in.

The singer went into a Dean Martin standard, and the audience politely clapped. They were awake and weren’t drooling too badly. For this place he was killing, no pun intended. During his routine, some of the residents even sang along. His voice was good, but not so good that you felt intimidated to join in. I saw him working for even a muscle movement from this population. Gosh, he was pulling my heart strings.

However, seconds later that changed. Our singer friend decided to go into a tale about his time as a nursing home entertainer in between his time in Vegas. He explained, “I always love doing the senior centers and senior shows. People come and people go. There was one guy-Jimmy. Jimmy knew all the words to my songs. Jimmy is no longer with us. But sometimes you just have to move on whatever happens. Then again, someday we all have to move on.” I glanced again at my mom and dad, who glanced back at me equally as horrified. I don’t know if our singer friend realized this, but much of the population was latter 80s and early 90s. Translated, asshole, most of their spouses, friends, siblings and in some case children are no longer here. Yes, not only do they know the Angel of Death but they play cards every Tuesday.

Then after a few more songs, he said, “This is my last song.” I felt relieved. While he wasn’t doing a terrible job, I felt like if he stopped now I still might appreciate his hard work and might forgive his tactless tale. No such luck.

So after he supposed last song, he had another song. He proceeded this selection with a crazy story about how he was stationed on a battle ship. I couldn’t tell how old he was looking at him. He was either a little younger or older than my parents, and they were Vietnam era. “What war was he in?” I asked my mom. Maybe it was Persian Gulf.

“Shhh….He’s crazy and wasn’t in any war.” My mom informed me.

“Bring our boys home. Being overseas for Christmas is no fun.” The man explained. Then he went on to tell the story of White Christmas, except he got several details wrong. The rest of the room was semi-comatose. I was lucid and was tempted to correct him, but why ruin the happiness of those having a good time with dementia by being fact checker bitch?

While he promised this was his final song, the man lied again. I clapped politely like the others, but his lying was getting on my last nerve. Our singer friend decided to do some crowd work. Going over to a dude in an army hat that was older than any museum fossil, the singer asked, “Were you in a war, Sir?”

He asked the guy who looked like he was confused as to what day, month, and year it was. It made me wonder if our army vet was the local lothario, the mythical 83 year old creature they speak of in retirement communities. While this was not apparent now, perhaps during the happy hours the residents were allowed true alcoholic beverages those hot pants were pulled up and he was rocking and randy.

“Were you in the Korean War?” The man looked confused and nodded.

“He was never in a war.” A woman that I assume was his daughter said. There was that awkward moment where we all paused unsure of what to do.

“Did you like Frank Sinatra?” He asked the guy. The confused old man nodded again. Then our singer friend went over to his machine and turned on the track. A few seconds in he realized it was the wrong track but covered well. This awkward moment had turned into an awkward five minutes. Wow, this trip was becoming creative gold in ways I never expected.

The singer recovered well, and danced with the program director for a few minutes in the song. It was a lovely moment, and I could tell despite all his selfishness with encores and horrible stories he did truly have a good heart. I had seen better, but I had seen worse. This dude was alright. He was winning me back. We all clapped hoping this would be the finale like he promised.

No such luck. Then he sang Jail House Rock. His version was okay, but despite his promise, this was not the last song. Now I didn’t know what to think or feel about our singer friend who was sending my emotions in so many different directions. As he kept promising that the song selection would be the last, it felt like the last words of an idiot general in an epic battle in the Wild West against the oppressed Native Americans. The guy kept promising something, but then some Native American brave who knew the general was an idiot all along scalped him thus ending the stupidity for everyone on both sides.

Well our singer friend was now wandering into the zone of STOOPID. He told some terrible story about how he was wandering the wilderness before his wife captured him and chained him to the door so he could never escape. Granted, dementia was the normal state of mind in this place but several of the residents had a WTF look on their faces. On the bright side, he was keeping them awake. Perhaps his wife earned a stable living and had good health insurance. Yes, these were probably the missing pieces in this narrative.

After that, he told us 21 years later, he and his wife had a dog. It was his job to take the dog out at 5:30 AM to pee, and his wife wanted to sleep in, probably because he had to be at an office or something. Recently, during the snow storm he took the dog out at 5:30 am and the dog faked like it was peeing but didn’t just to mess with him. Instead, he peed on himself in the frigid cold, and locked himself out of the house. So he woke up his wife who grudgingly let him in. What this had to do with the song I don’t know, but he began singing. Now I was at a loss for words. I have lived more than many and have seen a lot, but this was one experience I have never had.

The man spoke of an album he recorded a few more times. Uttered that he was singing another song, and he did. Now he wasn’t promising it was his last song, and we had given up hoping. Maybe he had just been faking just like his dog had. But during this whole time, I had finally determined poor Jimmy’s cause of death.

Like us, Jimmy had attended the show that never ended. While we had a few more years on us, Jimmy did not. Rather than have him sit through another “final song,” the Grim Reaper too grew tired of being lied to by this nursing home lounge singer and spared poor Jimmy. The sad thing was, Jimmy’s wife was dead and she was been an insufferable wench when she lived, and his children were assholes that never visited. I don’t know. I am just making that up so that Jimmy seems sympathetic. The Grim Reaper did a good thing. This man still went on for five more songs. He would have come back to get more, but even Death can’t do nine final songs. Thus, the cause of death will never be listed and his tale has not been told until now.

Well the singer did not lie, nine songs later, this was truly his final song. After the show, we thanked him. The man might have selfishly taken three encores, but he selflessly gave himself to a difficult crowd. So while I loathe his lying, I like him as a human. He just needs better stories. And apparently he is a nursing home favorite, because he informed everyone he was booked for two more dates. Hey, he can handle the crowd. Most entertainers can’t. Points for him, even if you might die during the course of his show.

After the show ended, we visited with Mema Ralph for a bit. She showed us her new digs, and informed us she had gotten into a turf war with one other resident. We asked why she didn’t say anything. Ordinarily, my grandmother is a spitfire. Mema was tired from Thanksgiving, too tired to fight I suppose.

We got back to her room, which by the way she has a single. Yes, she has more living space than most of the NYC Metropolitan area. We arranged her furniture so living and moving would be easier. As we did this, the women who kill their husbands shows still played in the background. My parents and I were getting sucked in. Apparently, my grandmother watches them all the time. Sigh, runs in the family. Still, the women who killed their husbands were the perfect thing to do after the lounge singer. They prove the thesis that some show end faster than others, and sometimes you need to rewrite the script and kill your costar.

After that, we headed home. With age comes wisdom. So I followed the lead of the elder crowd, had some cake and pop as we say in Pittsburgh. As I chowed down on this delight, my mother popped on a movie. My parents and I celebrated by falling asleep in front of the TV. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

A Sweet Story

My grandmother recently passed. I miss her because she was so funny. I wasn't in town for the funeral but am in town this week. The first holiday without the deceased loved one is always the hardest. Anyway, we were talking about who was at the funeral.

Some of my aunt's former boyfriend's came, they had jobs and treated her kind so of course she wasn't marrying them anytime soon. Then my uncle's former girlfriend came and made things interesting with this wife, but alas, we don't like his wife. And then my great aunt's ex husband who cheated on her showed up. He still comes to family reunions despite the fact everyone hates him. Maybe he wants free food, I dunno.

One surprise visitor was in fact my cousin whom I will call Deke. A prep school kid, Deke was a tad bit spoiled. Not that my idiot aunt and her husband who claimed to make an obscene amount of money helped. Anyway, Deke had wanted to go to a party and his parents didnt let him. So they were in the car arguing and that is when Deke jumped out of the car. He suffered brain damage, and lost his ability to taste spicey food. And not to mention got some serious anger management issues. Shortly thereafter, Deke had a girlfriend who was stupid and spoiled like he was. Well she wanted to break up and Deke was not hearing of it. Brain damaged, Deke somehow got a hold of a gun and held her hostage for several hours. The authorities did not look kindly upon this and locked him up. I know, it's just a felony right?

Well my aunt being a neglegent mother said it was the criminal gene, not her shiteous parenting. They emancipated Deke, not just to wash their hands of him but to save money because in the state of PA the families have to pay for the incarcerated kiddies.

Well Deke got out, got a new girlfriend, and had a baby. The child is currently missing one foot. But Deke has grown up. He supports the child by working part time as a used car salesman and part time as a lab test subject.

I met Deke a few times. While he is obviously insane and I would probably never actually let him know where I live, he seemed nice enough.

Deke came to the funeral. Anyway the story he told was that when he was locked up no one wrote to him. His parents washed their hands of him. But there was one person who remembered him. That was my grandmother. She sent him several letters a week. Deke often looked forward to my grandmother's letters. Not only because they were funny and sweet, but also because it meant someone on the outside was there for him, wasn't judging him. It meant that he still mattered. Sure, his own mother didnt want him. His father was useless. His other brother was a goofball. The youngest, the so called brain, went to school on ROTC and never speaks to his family, wonder why, but my grandmother let Deke know he wasn't a bad person trying to get good but a sick person trying to get well. And for as crazy as Deke is and for as much as he barely has it together, he remembered my grandmother's kind deed. He knew what it was like to be down and knew my grandmother was a friend. And a friend is someone who is kind to you when life isn't.

I guess that's why I write to my buddy in jail (I haven't been good because I have been busy) and even paid him a visit. It's because maybe he made his mistakes with drugs but in the end, he is still my buddy. He still has a good heart. He took a wrong turn. We all take wrong turns. But there is a difference between a bad decision and a bad person. I think my grandmother knew that. And I think that's where I get that from. My boy said he would never forget me visiting him in jail. Now I believe him. I hope he doesn't have to go to my funeral to tell the story though. But my mother would probably have a heart attack if any one of us told her. Sigh....

Love

April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
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Portion of proceeds go to RAINN

 

It's Alright Have a Good Time (The Impressions)

Yesterday I found out my grandma, my beloved Nunni, had died. It was a shock, totally unexpected. My grandma was quite diabetic but never listened to doctors. It wasn't because she didn't care. She figured she was eighty-eight and wanted her damn candy. My mother tried to get her to go to doctors appointments and she would just cancel. Hey, there was a sale at the mall and there was an All You Can Eat Senior Special at Ean 'n' Park. My grandmother had other plans. She had raised six kids, lived through World War II and Civil Rights, oh and while we are there my grandmother also worked as a nurse and earned a teaching degree after her kids were grown. She figured she could do what she wanted. Personally, I think she was correct.

When I was a kid my grandmother got into a car accident. She had injured her head and they put her in a mental hospital. My grandfather almost died from a fatal blood clot. The backstory was that my grandmother had been doing her yearly role as the grandmother in the local Nutcracker when they were pulling out of the parking lot, someone wasn't looking and BAM! She was doing well in the hospital until they gave her the test. Due to the accident she had developed amnesia a la soap opera. Anyway she was regaining her memory until they made her do simple math as part of the discharge test. My grandmother failed the math test. They wanted to commit her because of what they viewed as long term brain damage. My mother, at the end of her rope said, "My mother is fine, she has the rest of her memory. Head injury or not, she was always terrible at math." And somehow, they got her discharged.

Yes she was terrible at math. I am too and so is my mother. My grandmother was the worst out of the three of us. Anyway, when my grandmother was trying to earn her bachelors in teaching they made her take a math class. The teacher was mean and nasty and there was no way my grandmother was passing. So she did what any desperate student would do. She started bringing the teacher candy. Well it didn't sway him one bit. Maybe he didn't like M & M's, I dunno. So my grandmother's GPA looked to be in peril and once again my mother had to step in. My mom met with her old college adviser who discovered my grandmother didn't need the math class after all and my grandmother was able to graduate. But still, the guy didn't pass her for all the candy she gave him which means he sucks as a person. Even politicos take bribes.

The thing about my grandmother is that she always had some sort of job. After retiring from nursing, teaching, and having six grown kids she took a job as a security guard at Walmart. Instantly, my grandmother was beloved and talked to just about everyone. My grandmother became so popular that they were making a local television commercial and they stuck her right in it. The actors painstakingly learned their lines but my grandmother stole the show on the merit of her personality. Needless to say, I think everyone was speechless. This lead to her being an extra in several films, one in which we say we could see her head.

But this job enabled my grandmother to make new friends, and instantly after befriending these people she would bring them to familial functions. We used to joke that grandma would say, "This is Bob. He used to be a convict but now he's a fugitive."

During one encounter we were having a Sunday lunch when we heard talking downstairs. Fearful we had burglars, my dad made the motion to get the shotgun he kept in order to protect the family. That is when we heard a voice say, "Annie, Bill, you home?" My dad's jaw dropped open. We had left the garage door open and rather than knock my grandmother just came in through the basement. Seconds later my grandmother and a bushy haired woman emerged.  With her she had some friend she met during her tenure at Walmart that she barely knew. My grandmother announced she met the woman that day and that this was her new friend and something else and apparently she had a birthday gift for my brother. At that moment, despite the fact my dad was probably ready to kill his mother in law, I couldn't help but laugh. The whole thing was pretty funny.

The thing about my grandmother was that she did whatever she wanted to whenever she wanted to. When I was a kid we discovered she could write poetry. My grandmother had written her poems on scraps of paper and left them lying around her house. Much like me she was  a hoarder. Anyway, during one cleaning that my mom did of their home she discovered them. My mother said to Nuni, "You need to publish these Mom." So my grandmother did, and at the age of 75 became a published poet.

I sometimes say my grandparents missed their calling as a comedy duo. They had been married for sixty something odd years. On the 60th wedding anniversary invites my grandmother wrote, "We have been married sixty years. We are one step closer to being dead." Of course my mom, aunts, and uncles were horrified. As usual I thought it was pretty funny.

But here was one memorable exchange my grandparents had.

Nuni: Fred, get up and stop being such an old man.
Pop Pop: Pat, being married to you is worse than life in prison. Because at least with life in prison I get the possibility of parole.

But this was only second to the exchange my grandmother had with my dad. Every year, my dad, who is a tax lawyer, did their taxes. After sixty something years of paying taxes my grandmother was fed up. So this is how the exchange between her and my dad went

Nuni: I am moving to Spain?
Dad: Why Mrs. Wallisch?
Nuni: That way I don't have to pay taxes.
Dad: Well Mrs. Wallisch, as a dual citizen you would have to pay two sets of taxes. So you would be paying twice the taxes.
Nuni: Oh-
Dad:Yeah.

Over the years my grandmother said countless prayers and novinas for my career. Not to mention she became the source for countless jokes just cause the punchlines wrote themselves. Throughout the weekend I found myself playing Yenta for not one but two Jewish families and they always tip well for their beloved Buble. But here is the thing, it's because everyone's grandma is somewhat crazy, somewhat whimsical, always adding levity and most of all just cool as hell. Bottom line, grandma rules.

Yesterday as my mother was falling apart I found myself having the day from hell. A job I was supposed to do got moved so I had to cancel my recording. I was also helping my mom write the obit. I don't think recording would have gone as well. But I just found myself at the end of my rope. Then I went to Penn Station and heard a bunch of street performers. They were singing "It's Alright."

At that moment, I looked over and saw a woman who was wearing a hat my grandmother used to own. As I heard the song and saw the hat I think it was my grandmother telling me she was at peace and had gotten successfully to the other side. After all, she gave me a lot of years of great memories and stories that are helluva funny.

And when grandma came, no matter how crazy she was, it was a gentle reminder life wasn't that serious. It was only as complicated as we made it. Hey, it's alright Nuni. I know you are causing some sort of mischief on the other side.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
Portion of proceeds go to RAINN