“At Church. Beer in fridge. Love, Grandma”. The note was taped to the front door of my grandparent’s house. My college roommate and I had just rolled up after 10 hours on the road in my 1970’s camper van, “Chocolate Thunder”: orange shag carpet inside, tantalizing brown color outside.
Moments after we had let ourselves in to my grandparent’s house they burst through the door and smothered us in hugs and kisses.
I asked grandma how she was doing. “Busier than a fart in a hot skillet”, she replied. She really said that.
Grandpa went to the fridge and returned with cans of Miller Lite. He also brought out the small glass cups: refined people never drink their Miller Lite directly from the can. My roommate stared wide eyed.
Grandma broke out the Wonder Bread and bologna and invited us to make sandwiches. In an effort to be polite, my roommate cut a modest slice of bologna. Without asking, Grandma reached over and manhandled his sandwich. She slapped on a second chunk of bologna the size of Rhode Island and teased, “You polite Canadians and your anemic sandwiches!” My roommate dutifully choked it down, aided by gulps of Miller Lite.
We had just moved into the living room to watch the Cubs game when an old family friend arrived. Out came more Miller Lite and another small glass. He regaled us with stories about his time years before in seminary, where he routinely snuck into the kitchen for a late night snack. Once, when he heard the head priest coming, he was forced to hide under a table for 20 minutes to avoid being caught. He re-enacted the event by crawling under the coffee table in my grandparent’s living room. We all laughed so hard we cried.
My roommate and I retired to the guest room. We had separate little Bert and Ernie beds with knitted bed covers. Above my bed was a crocheted wall hanging of a Sioux warrior. Above his there hung a felt church banner that read “This is the day that the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.” We turned off the lights.
Through the thin walls we could hear grandma humming the Beer Barrel Polka as she washed up the glasses. Grandpa was listening to his police scanner radio. In the dark my roommate quietly remarked, “My God, I wish I had your grandparents”.