Tradition

Cap and gown.  UCLA graduation, 1979:  Grandma Shorty,
Peter, the SJG, John, and Grandpa Bill

Every night after dinner, at 6:30 sharp, we talked to our grandparents.  While my dad spoke to them, the three of us waited in the den for the signal.  From the kitchen, my dad would call, "Okay!"  Then we'd trade off, having identical conversations.  "Hi Grandma.  How's ba you?  Hi Grandpa, how's ba you?  Did you have a nice day?"  That was the extent of it.  "Love you.  Talk to you tomorrow."  Next night, same exact conversation.  Every Sunday afternoon, at 3 sharp, ding dong, there they were, tiny Grandma Sara, who later earned the nickname Grandma Shorty, and the very tall Grandpa Bill.  Their accents were thick, their sense of humor unparalleled.  No matter what they'd been through, they could still laugh and tell great stories.  We all sat in the living room on Lindbrook Drive, eating pretzels and sipping Coke.  Sometimes they'd share amazing tales of  Russia, how they escaped and came to America with bupkis.  Sometimes we'd play checkers and gin rummy.  Other times, we'd listen to comedy albums.  Alan Sherman.  "You Don't Have To Be Jewish." Nichols and May.  There was entertainment, too.  Spontaneous piano recitals.  Guitar solos.  My honorable attempts to sing like Joni Mitchell.  A magic show.  Some modern dance.  Some Fred and Ginger.  Some soft shoe.  At some point, my grandma would slowly rise from the sofa.  "Give me a push, lover," she'd say and my grandpa would gently nudge her upright.  At 4 sharp, we walked them to the door and said goodbye.  Eventually, the nightly calls dwindled to once a week, the Sunday visits ended, but not the connection.  Eventually, it was just my grandma on the phone.  "Hi, Grandma, what's new?"  Her standard answer:  "Everything is old, including me."  And then, those calls stopped, too.  But I can still hear their voices in my head.  After all these years, I have to say, the reception is as strong as ever.