"So I just wanted to know what it was like when you were growing up and you were my age?"
Evelyn Anderson, getting ready for the day, routinely curls her hair as she responds to my question: "Well, how old are you?"
"19."
"I had already grown up."
She graduated high school when she was 16 and with Elizabeth Taylor-like features, worked on the 57th floor of the Chrysler building. Evelyn or "Nana" is my grandmother. Impeccably smart with a anything west of the Hudson is Hicksville tone, she caught the eye of a young fellow at a Pan American cocktail party in 1951.
The young fellow, Joseph Anderson, is my grandpa and I’m his one and only “favorite granddaughter.”
“What would you consider the most important thing in life?”
“Self-satisfaction, happiness.”
Joe strikes conversation with the passerby, the dog and the window cleaner. He’s been mistaken for James Garner and is accredited now and then for his service in World War II. After a spurred conversation with a no name this morning, I think Joe re-gained that “self-satisfaction.”
“90? I’d say you were in your 70’s, I mean look at that hair! Are you a veteran?”
“World War II Marine Corps.”
“Thank you for your service. Now, I’m going to say something and I mean it in all sincerity: you’re one great son of a bitch!”
A hug and a tear rolls down my grandma’s face
A farm family adopted Joe and I assume this is why he hates cheese; he’s a hamburger, bun and ketchup type guy. As he spoke about hitchhiking cross-country Minnesota to California, making a quantum leap over to the island of Guam during the war or writing for the sports section at the University of Minnesota, the reassurance in his eyes made an imprint, snapshot in my mind. I hope that when I’m 90 years old I can tell my story; a great love, a priceless struggle, a series of invaluable events, with that same look in my eyes, a tint of satisfaction.
Dedicated to Nana & Joe
I love you.
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