It's long overdue

When I was a kid, I used to love it when my grandmother spent the weekend with us. She didn't live far; Rogers Park, on the far North Side of Chicago. She lived alone since 1977, when my grandfather passed away, unexpectedly after cataract surgery. She lived on the corner of Devon Avenue and Sheridan Road, three blocks south of Loyola University, my Alma mater. My grandmother didn't have much in terms of things. She lived each month on Social Security and SSI, and lived in a high rise, Chicago Housing Authority apartment. Things were so meager for her that I remember her getting a block of cheese from the Mayor's office; something reserved for people who really needed it.

While she didn't possess much, my grandmother was filled with love. She had love for her children--my mother and aunt, Etta. She had love for her grandchildren, and her son-in-laws. She loved to laugh. She loved to cook, especially traditional Jewish meals filled with gefilte fish, matzo ball soup, chopped liver, turnips, kishke, and latkes. She also loved to bake chocolate chip cookies, and cheesecake squares, angel food cake, banana cake, and chocolate cake. She loved to play games; her favorites were Rumicub, poker, or any card game, really.

I think its a gift, being a grandparent. You get to be the good cop, all the time. You get to spoil your grandchildren, and care less about the consequences. You leave that for the parents. You get to shower your grandchildren with love, take them to special places, create lasting memories like the ones I'm recollecting.

My mother used to live two miles down the road from us. Circumstances have changed, and she now lives with my brother, Ira, and his family, about 30 minutes away. It's not much further than Rogers Park was for my grandmother. We used to see my mother several times a week. The kids had her in their lives; she was a permanent fixture. They miss seeing her as much. The occasional babysitting night just doesn't seem to be enough. So we've found a simple remedy: we've invited her over for the weekend. A good old fashioned sleepover. She'll watch Frederic play in his soccer tournament, she'll go trick or treating with us, she may even come to mass on All Saint's Day (good old Jewish woman she is). And she'll sit in a hotel hallway with me for several hours, while Frederic competes in a chess tournament. "We can talk," she said, when I suggested it wasn't necessary.

We're going to build up some memories next weekend. It's long overdue.