My parents were divorced when I was eight. My sisters and I got to spend time on Sundays with my dad. More often than not he took us to his mother’s apartment. We called his mother and my grandmother Gigi. Gigi was a very formal lady who believed young ladies should sit straight and tall on the sofa. She would chat with us about school and ask my dad about his week. Sometimes my sisters and I would look through copies of her McCall’s or Good Housekeeping magazines as we sat. Other times my dad would put on an old movie or a sports program and we sat silently and watch it too.
Things would liven up at three o’clock when Gigi would put out a bowl of corn chips and a plate of Lemon Cooler cookies. She would also pour everyone mixed drinks. My dad, sisters, and I would have Coke with orange juice mixed into it. Gigi would have rum and Coke. (I didn’t realize until I was much older than she had rum mixed in her drink.)
Once the snack was over we would help her gather up the glasses and bowls and take them to the kitchen. Then it was time for quick hugs and goodbyes before we headed back to our house.
I never remember being bored or feeling stifled by the Sunday we spent at her apartment. I do remember thinking that she expected our best manners and liked order. My other grandmother was the direct opposite, but she is another story for another day.
