Beer and Chocolates
A Septuagenarian Singer Indulges
The chain link gate that was not there
when I was thirteen
is locked
But the courtyard and the short flight of stairs
leading to my grandparents’ apartment
open
almost as broadly
as Lillian’s and David’s hearts did
that trippy Summer of Love
I bunked with them –
memories and epiphanies
in neon shades of hot pink and turquoise
stitched into a quilt I increasingly alter
into a shroud
The next Great Adventure awaits me,
you see
An inverse bouquet of fireworks –
intensifying rather than diminishing
The gate rattles, opens inward
My daughter has hopped the fence
Let’s peek in the windows, she whispers
(I am tempted, but there are limits)
Better to whisper Hello, then perch on the stoop
with the great view still
of the Capitol record building
My eyes – those Hallmark-y, holy windows
to my soul – closing, awaiting Grandma
who emerges from the kitchen
Her beer in one hand, a shot glass of beer
for me (!) in the other –
Grandpa fingering his love beads like a rosary,
belly dancing with Grandma
in her bright orange house dress
on the olive-green shag carpet
Luring me to help myself to yet another
of those yummy chocolate coconut candies
from that store by Jean Harlow’s star
on Hollywood Blvd,
long gone yet ever present
Why Jean Harlow? Because it was my grandmother who introduced me to her while we treated ourselves to hot fudge sundaes at the iconic Brown Derby in Hollywood. The walls of the restaurant were lined with pictures of the 1930’s/40’s most luminous stars – and, from the beginning, Jean Harlow captivated me. Jean, like me, grew up in Missouri.
Also – like me sipping my shot glass of beer or Grandma slipping restaurant cutlery or china into her gigantic tote so I could have souvenirs – Jean was a bad girl.
Jean loved William Powell, a movie star. Grandma and I adored Grandpa, who more-than-resembled another Hollywood legend – Groucho Marx. I can’t tell you the number of times Grandpa signed autographs for adoring fans.
“Who’s it hurting?” he’d ask me when I’d protest he was pretending. “It makes them happy. Gives them a memory to last a lifetime.”
This from the man who assured me “chicken livers are an acquired taste.”
Yet he’s got a point. This midwestern girl will cherish her memories of two magical summers in Hollywood well beyond the grave, into her next life — whatever it is, whoever she is.
These memories may even become a book dedicated to my grandson.
Meanwhile, Beer and Chocolates was sparked by a prompt from the Medium publication, Catharsis Chronicles:
Can a house recognize the footsteps of someone who left decades ago?
Whether a house can recognize footsteps, I’m not sure. But our hearts can. Absolutely.
Stay tuned.
Your grandparents like lovely, fun people! How lucky you were!