Lunch at Perkins Cake and Steak

My grandfather was 87 years old the last time I saw him, 2 years before he died. It was 1982 and he drove a red mustang. On the day after Thanksgiving, with my sister & I in the car already, we picked up Johanna, my late grandmother’s best friend. Both Johanna and my grandfather had dividend checks to put in the bank. Johanna didn’t drive. Her late husband Raymond had been the driver. My grandmother didn’t drive either. I, on the other hand, had driven 500 miles to see my grandfather. My sister flew to Rochester from Philadelphia. My grandfather had been after Johanna to move in with him so that he wouldn’t have to fetch her across town. I think he had other things in mind, too. Johanna would have none of it. She told him so in the car in her thick German accent.

Johanna and our grandfather kept up a loud banter in the front seats while my sister and I sat quietly in the back, taking it all in. Floyd, my grandfather, had a lot to complain about. He was just like that. He liked to say, “It’s hell to get old!” He was not one to look on the bright side of things. I’m not sure how Johanna or my grandmother could stand him. My grandmother’s brother and sister would not let him into their home anymore. He waited outside, either in or on top of his car. He would actually lie on top of the station wagon.

After Floyd and Johanna deposited their dividend checks at each of their banks, we were in for a rare treat- lunch out. Both Johanna and Floyd were hard of hearing so they talked loudly. Again, my sister and I sat quietly across from them. I was 25, she was 32. Halfway through lunch Johanna announced that lunch was on her. My grandfather said since we were his granddaughters, that lunch was on him. They went back and forth, louder and louder, about who was buying lunch, and who had more money. They named their top earning stocks. Johanna had a great deal of New York Power & Electric. She said since she had more money that she’d buy us lunch. All eyes in Perkins Cake & Steak were on us. My sister was trying to slide onto the floor in embarrassment. I really don’t know who ended up paying for our lunch but I told my sister to sit up straight, that this might be the last time anyone argued over who paid for our lunches! 28 years later, I can testify it was.

Singing with Josephine

Where I’m from/ Singing with Josephine

I am from Anne and Richard, the fifth child of two Midwesterners who met in Istanbul and then landed in Newport, Rhode Island in 1948. I was born May 4th 1957, Rhode Island Independence day and named Rowena ten days later. My mother died in 1968 and I still have a hard time pronouncing the R of Rowena.

I grew up in a lovely old farmhouse, with three acres on a dead end lane, in Middletown, Rhode Island. Our Portuguese neighbors took good care of us. When five of us kids broke our parents’ four-poster bed one Saturday morning, Manny from next door built an unbreakable built-in master bed the very same day. Though the bed was unbreakable, my mother was not.

We moved from that home on Peckham Lane, one short mile away one year after my mother died. I had a new mother and I’d gained a little sister finally, my lovely blonde stepsister, Deborah. She was eight, I was twelve. She told me the facts of life when I had no idea what was happening to my body. I knew from Readers Digest that bleeding from any orifice of the body was deadly and when I told my stepsister I was dying of cancer, she, the daughter of a nurse, reassured me that all was well, that I’d survive. She held my hand, told my older sister to go purchase the necessary supplies and indeed, I survived. I have survived the wreckage of many catastrophes, including cancer last fall.

Life is always an adventure to Deborah and me. We swam through drainage pipes in strong rains, in the nursery behind our house, while our parents honeymooned for the next decade of our at-home lives. We lived life to the hilt and our grandmother Josephine kept us in line sometimes and had us over for sleepovers on New Years Eve. The three of us rode bikes, swam, ate ice cream, and went to see the Christmas lights on the ships at midnight on New Years Eve. Life truly was grand with our grandmother Josie, who my four older siblings loved and selected her name to be mine, Mrs. Spooner. She had been our kindergarten teacher.

Last Thursday night I spent at Brattleboro Memorial Hospital with my friend Mary, her harp music, and my lovely blonde stepsister, Deborah,

who is now in hospice care at home, preparing to take a journey her young son and husband are helping her with-a send-off to parts unknown. Now soon, Deborah, will be singing with Josie again.