Some Things Are Just Not Cherry-Worthy

Poor lady. I don’t know why she continues to subject herself to my family’s craziness.

She’s in her eighties and lives down the street from my grandmother. She goes to church three times a week – if not more. Every Tuesday she goes to the hospital to visit anyone who needs cheering up, whether she knows them or not. She weighs all of 80lbs, soft spoken, pale as a ghost, tight curly short brown hair and is as sweet and innocent as anybody can be. And I’d bet you a million dollars she gets uncomfortable during our family’s “questionable” discussions.

She was invited to join us for Easter lunch.

However, we had to wait to eat until she returned home from church at 12:30pm. Asking my family to wait to eat for anything is considered criminal. It was only 10am when we arrived at my Grandmother’s, and you would have thought it would be a week until our next meal. Everyone bumped elbows while hovering over the turkey and ham. Picking out and eating the tiny pieces apparently isn’t considered really eating. And somehow selflessly finding these treasured slivers for each other made our own gluttony guilt free.

“Let’s not invite her next time,” my grandmother said as she “tasted” a roll. “We can’t just wait until she’s back. If we invite her next time, we’ll just tell her she can’t go to church.”

We took turns being the lookout. The lookout’s job was to stand at the kitchen window and watch for her red Cadillac to pull into her driveway. It was during my shift when she finally came home after her selfish morning of worship and praise. I yelled through the house, “She’s home!”

Moments later the phone rings. When my Grandmother answers, her voice suddenly goes up three octaves higher…

“Ohhhh hiiii honey. Ohhhh, you’re okay. You just come over whenever you’re ready. Do you need Becca to come down and walk with you?”

Wait. Whenever she’s ready? My, how Grandmother’s attitude changed. Just mere seconds ago she was salivating over the corn casserole. And what’s with her volunteering MY services? Being the youngest in the house, I guess she assumes I get around better and I felt this wasn’t the time to compare arthritis medicines.

I look at my uncle, “You go get her.”

“What… you want me to throw her over my shoulder and come back running?... Ok.”

Within a few minutes she finally arrives to the house carrying a bowl of special fruit salad. It was special because she put cherries in it. She doesn’t normally put cherries in it but thought this occasion deserved some.

Sitting at the table scarfing down our food, we had our usual off-the-cuff conversations.

My mother told a story about one of her students and it somehow turned into one of those things I’m sure the elderly neighbor feared.

Mom: He said he lives behind The Honey Hut.

Me: What’s The Honey Hut?

Grandmother: Sounds like a strip joint.

Aunt: And how would you know what a strip joint sounds like?

Grandmother: I just know.

Mom: Whatever it is, his dad buys him burgers there.

Uncle: Strip joints serve food, too.

Aunt: And how would you know that strip joints serve food?

Uncle: I just know. Where’s the phonebook?

My uncle is very inquisitive. He will ask a million questions about any topic until he feels he’s received enough to base some sort of opinion. I usually bring up a topic on purpose just to get him going.

The way-out-of-her-comfort-zone neighbor is silent as my uncle returns to the dinner table and begins flipping through the phonebook. Her eyes are down and she occasionally picks at her special fruit salad.

Uncle: There’s not “strip joint” listed in the phone book.

Mom: Try “adult entertainment.”

Uncle: Nope, not there either.

Aunt: I’m somehow pleased to know you don’t know how to look this up.

Me: Try “ho.”

Grandmother: Try “entertainment, adult.”

I don’t want to know how my grandmother knew how to find the listings of strip joints. I really don’t. My mind cannot even go there. Turns out The Honey Hut is listed under “restaurant and bar,” so the question is still unanswered. I trust my uncle will get to the bottom of this stripper matter and report back to the family.

She didn’t last long after lunch. Shocker.

She’s a sweet lady and tried very hard to change the “stripper” topic by talking about the troubles with her cordless phone. Right after the kitchen was cleaned and right before it was Sunday afternoon naptime, she fetched her bowl of leftover special fruit salad and waved her goodbyes. My uncle escorted her home so he could take a look at her phone. Turns out she just wasn’t hanging it up correctly.

I wonder if she’s looked back on today’s Easter celebration with my family and wondered if it was special enough for cherries.