Keinahora. Grandma said it all the time, so much so that I thought it was a nickname for Jackie and me, like Piscatrunie, which was her nickname for us – wasn’t it? Continue reading
My daughter answered the phone. Her voice went up an octave, and her face forced a smile, as if the caller could see her and she needed to convey welcome. Translation? She had no idea who she was talking with. But, a well-trained clergy kid who can make small talk with the best of them, she chatted with whomever was calling her grandmother. I watched from Mom’s kitchen, trying to guess the caller’s identity while Mom slept in the living room, unawakened by the ringing phone.