Grandma Frida személy
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Grandma Frida asked.
I put my hand over my face.
“No,” Mad Rogan said.
“A boyfriend?” Grandma Frida asked.
“What about . . .”
“No,” Mom and I said in unison.
“But you don’t even know what I wanted to ask!”
“No,” we said again together.
“Party poopers.” Grandma shrugged.
“Rogan,” I said. “Lift up your shirt.”
He pulled his Henley up, exposing his side. A folded paper towel covered his lower ribs, held in place by duct tape.
“What is this?” I demanded.
“It’s a bandage,” Bern said.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is,” Grandma Frida said. “Sometimes you cut your finger and you wrap the paper towel around it real tight, slap some duct tape on it, and good to go.”
“Your father used to do this,” Mom told me. “I swear, it’s like every man is born with it, or they must take some secret class on how to do it.”
“You have to live a little.” Grandma fitted the track bar into the cog on the track. “Go out with a bad boy. Run headfirst into a fight. Get roaring drunk. Something!”
A guilt trip. Unfortunately for Grandma, I grew up with four younger siblings. Guilt tripping was sometimes the only reason anything got cleaned in our house.
“Grandma, why don’t you knit?”
“Why don’t you knit? All grandmas knit.”
Grandma leaned into the track bar. The track split open and crashed to the floor with a loud clang. She stared at me with big blue eyes. “You want me to knit?”
“If you look in the dictionary under grandmother, you’ll see a little old lady with two knitting needles and a ball of yarn.” I pretended to stir imaginary spaghetti with two imaginary chopsticks. “Sometimes I sit and think, if only my grandma had knitted me a hat
or a scarf ."
Grandma Frida tore into the motor pool from the street, followed by an Asian woman in her late twenties. The woman wore Rogan’s team’s tactical gear. My grandma wore her “talk to the hand”face. She also carried a can of spray paint in her hand.
“What is it, Hanh?”Rogan asked.
“She marked all of the ATVs with her initials!”Hanh declared.
“Because they’re mine,”Grandma Frida growled.
“She doesn’t get all the ATVs.”
Rogan’s face took on a very patient look.
“Yes, I do. I tagged them, they’re mine.”
“Just because you tagged them doesn’t mean they’re yours. I can walk into this motor pool and start tagging things left and right. That doesn’t make them mine.”
“Aha.”My grandma picked up a huge wrench and casually leaned it on her shoulder. “How are you going to tag things with broken arms?”