Monday May 30, 2005
	Memorial Day in the USA.
	My six foot five overweight friend is visiting (from California) and it's 11 in the morning and he's still sleeping and he's been here for days and my grandmother is on the patio and she's rolling a cigarette.  "Light me," says my grandmother. My grandmother has been rolling her own cigarettes for over fifty years.  She uses Black Death Rolling papers and prefers McClintock full flavor tobacco. "Happy Memorial Day grandma," I say then striking the wooden match. "Who's your friend?" says my grandmother.  Tobacco is sticking to her deflated, wrinkled lips.  "An old friend," I say, "From Ferris State University." "He snores," she says.  "Reminds me of your grandfather. My grandfather is dead and his favorite thing that he liked to do was test vacuum tubes (when vacuum tubes were in radios and TV's) and he'd take bagfuls to the hardware store and test them and my grandmother says he died 'cause one day grandfather couldn't find anymore tube testers and then the tubes themselves disappeared.  When she mentions my grandfather I always say: "Sorry grandma." She says:  "When they got rid of tubes they killed your grandfather.  When he'd plug a tube into the tester and he'd see that orange light eventually come on he'd light up just like one of them old tubes and I used to make him a turkey salad sandwich and wrap it in wax paper and off he'd go." I'm looking at my grandma and I'm smiling and while I'm smiling I'm thinking: Can you imagine having an existence like that?  Finding purpose through vacuum tubes?  This guy musta been some kind of f-ckin' weirdo.  Him and his wrinkled-up brown paper bag full of glass vacuum tubes, maybe a two or three day beard and his turkey salad sandwich wrapped in wax paper.  Maybe he shoulda been balling my grandmother a litttle more.  Maybe not.  Maybe a hobby would have helped.  I know he tried whittling.  C'mon Norm.  Vacuum tubes were interesting to him and what's wrong with that? "What's does your friend want?" says my grandmother then relighting the cigarette. "He's just getting over a divorce.  He was nearly killed by his ex-wife," I say.  My mother walks onto the patio and says: "We're having hamburgers and hotdogs and barbecued beans and potato chips.  Anyone want a Coca-Cola?" "Happy Memorial Day," I say. "Is your friend getting up?" she asks. "I don't know," I say.  "Light me," says my grandmother.  PREVIOUS   HOME   NEXT