My grandmother came to the church to watch Laura get married yesterday. 95% because she’s known and loved Laura she’s been a little girl, and 5% to make sure I wore make-up.
“I had to sneak out of the senior center,” she told me.
“What was going on there today?” I asked. My grandmother, who is 81, and lives alone, has an active social life full of organized activities. Last year, her group was almost broken apart when a charming 75-year-old bachelor strode in and started asking everyone to dance, indiscriminately, at parties. Fortunately, he died.
“There was a Columbus Day party,” she said. Keep in mind that it was Friday.
“Nice,” I said, teasing. “What did you do?”
“We had a very nice lasagna, and some chicken with lemon,” she said.
“Oh,” I cooed.
“Yeah,” she said, nodding her head. “It was nice. Very nice.”
The conversation quickly moved on to Caleb, who everyone in my family loves so much I’m starting to think I need to break up with him.
“Are you a Catholic, Caleb?” she asked, in her deep New York accent. Think heavy “KAA”s where there are C’s in that sentence.
“No, I was actually raised Southern Baptist,” he said.
“Oh,” she responded, momentarily deterred.
“Well, it’s not like the church is going to fall down right now because you’re not a Catholic, right?” she continued, brightly. Worst case scenario being that everyone in our proximity would come to bodily harm. Best case he would just go to hell.
Then she turned her attention to Laura, who looked like Scarlett O’Hara walking down the aisle. Her hair upswept, her skin glowing. Her dress a cloud of tulle. My grandmother and I both cooed in unison.