One In A Million
For one bright shining moment, at about age six or so, my grandmother made me feel special.
This elderly, sweet woman lived in America for some sixty of her 82 year-long life and never truly mastered the English language. She got along just fine with the grocer and school teachers by communicating with smiles and hugs and food offerings, usually homemade bread fresh from the oven.
My visits to her house with my father involved a form of charades. She talked with her hands of course, animated fun for a kid, and injected a few single syllable English words for good measure. This is how she introduced some guy named Mario Lanza whose scratched record she played over and over on the Hi-Fi. She encouraged me to dance while she clapped and sang every word of every love song to perfection.
Then she served me steaming hot coffee and sesame cookies without asking my father’s permission. Later, he rolled his eyes during the ceremonial cleaning out of the refrigerator. My tiny grandmother shut him down with a few choice words delivered in a big loud voice. She’d examined my boney arms from wrist to shoulder, disappointed with the findings. I’d inherited a too thin frame from both of them. She could fix it.
Out came the Jello, chocolate pudding, and leftovers covered in aluminum foil. Her endless presentation of foods needed no translation. Cold chicken, pasta and meatballs expressly for me. A trifecta of gastronomic delight.
The visit ended at the front door. Her hug surrounded me as we melted into each other. A pinch then a kiss on each cheek. This demonstrative show of affection was nothing more than an elaborate rouse. It masked the treats she covertly shoved deep into my pockets before whispering “Dooshie Pie” in my ear. (It sounded like that.)
On the walk home I asked my Dad what “Dooshie Pie” meant. He shrugged it off. “You’re one in a million,” he laughed. It was a lie.
My dad called all his kids “one in a million,” in loud, clear, undeniable King’s English, and often. Usually after we’d screwed up his radio station, taken something from his tool shed to build a street jigger or spilled milk at the dinner table.
I waited for his “Dooshie Pie”, the one my grandmother tenderly bestowed with a smile, a kiss and treats. Instead, while my mother cleaned up whatever we’d done, he uttered between pursed lips a few half-made-up Italian gibberish words. One learns early in life a curse word in any real or invented language is exactly that.
My dad’s “one in a million” speech reached beyond our home. He evenly distributed between political candidates, the gas company, the driver who cut him off on the highway, and practically anyone who knocked on the door looking for a donation during baseball season. Further confirmation of my diminished value among millions of people.
For years I looked for a bright side to this equation. And I think I found it.
I recently read there are now 7 billion people on this planet. If I am one in a million, there are 7,000 people on this planet just like me — lucky enough to have had a grandmother like mine. Or a dad who was very inventive with the English language.
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Awesome MEMORY
Awesome LOVE