STEPHEN AND HIS GRANDMA

“Your dinners are already paid for” says our waiter as he hands me back my credit card. “I don’t understand” I say in disbelief and confusion. “The gentleman sitting at the next table paid your bill as he left”, the waiter explained. I remembered thinking the man was sitting so close he must have heard every word Stephen and I said. The man’s only companion was his young son who spent the entire time on his smart phone. Stephen, my twenty-nine year old grandson, and I had been squeezed into a tiny table in the corner, right behind this fortyish, professional-looking man who had no choice but to overhear our conversation.

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MOVING THROUGH THE FIFTIES

I was recently given a memoir homework assignment of choosing a decade of my life and writing about it. I chose “the fifties”.