Amid the percolating chaos, there was a lot of emphasis in my family on toeing the line. It could all get very boring and made for a lot of unnecessary issues over the years. It would have been easier had they let us kids see that our individual “spiritedness” had a history.
But no, you had to catch them in the act.
Long ago now, my grandmother rented part of her triplex to a wizened lady much older than herself. It was always quiet over there, except when the woman’s grandson was out of prison. And since he was always in prison for the same reason--arson--my grandmother felt a justification and an urgency about keeping track of this decidedly low-brow young man.
As it turned out, she was adding her own special flare to the mission.
On more than one afternoon, I discovered my grandmother dialing the telephone and giggling. There would follow a barreling rumble from the other side of the wall, traveling the length of the house. Just as it stopped, she’d hang up, by then gut-laughing as silently as she could manage. Through the wall there’d be a groan, the sound of a phone slamming down, then another long rumble in the opposite direction.
Uh, Gram . . . whatcha doin’?
There have been casualties in today’s world of infinite apps, things you just can’t do anymore because of everything you can do. Case in point: my grandmother knew that whenever his grandmother was away, the young con-arsonist would “entertain” a girlfriend upstairs. Unfortunately for the amorous couple, the walls were thin enough that my grandmother would always know the exact worst moment to place a call--to the only telephone in their apartment. Downstairs.
Amazingly, whenever the phone rang, the not-so-grand son would extricate himself from his audible activity (excusing himself, one hopes) and run downstairs to answer it. Every time, despite the innumerable previous hangups. And--possibly addled by sexual frustration--he never once thought to accuse the old landlady next door.
Whenever someone remarks that prisons aren’t filled with criminals so much as they are with the stupid, I think of that guy.
And of how many fun-filled afternoons he unknowingly gave my grandmother.
But no, you had to catch them in the act.
Long ago now, my grandmother rented part of her triplex to a wizened lady much older than herself. It was always quiet over there, except when the woman’s grandson was out of prison. And since he was always in prison for the same reason--arson--my grandmother felt a justification and an urgency about keeping track of this decidedly low-brow young man.
As it turned out, she was adding her own special flare to the mission.
On more than one afternoon, I discovered my grandmother dialing the telephone and giggling. There would follow a barreling rumble from the other side of the wall, traveling the length of the house. Just as it stopped, she’d hang up, by then gut-laughing as silently as she could manage. Through the wall there’d be a groan, the sound of a phone slamming down, then another long rumble in the opposite direction.
Uh, Gram . . . whatcha doin’?
There have been casualties in today’s world of infinite apps, things you just can’t do anymore because of everything you can do. Case in point: my grandmother knew that whenever his grandmother was away, the young con-arsonist would “entertain” a girlfriend upstairs. Unfortunately for the amorous couple, the walls were thin enough that my grandmother would always know the exact worst moment to place a call--to the only telephone in their apartment. Downstairs.
Amazingly, whenever the phone rang, the not-so-grand son would extricate himself from his audible activity (excusing himself, one hopes) and run downstairs to answer it. Every time, despite the innumerable previous hangups. And--possibly addled by sexual frustration--he never once thought to accuse the old landlady next door.
Whenever someone remarks that prisons aren’t filled with criminals so much as they are with the stupid, I think of that guy.
And of how many fun-filled afternoons he unknowingly gave my grandmother.
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