Summer, 1988, Mom and I visited Grams and Gramps. I made this card for Grams made of green construction paper. I cut out a heart from white construction paper and pasted it to the folded green one. I held a slender crayon, pinching all of my little fingers at the neck of it, the improper way. The oily texture rubbed off onto the white paper. I love you Grammy! I looked at the words I wrote. Poetry. It said it all.
Surprisingly, Grams kept it. But after learning that Grams kept every single card she was ever given, it didn’t seem that unbelievable that she kept my simple, makeshift card. I was honored that she had kept it all this time.
Grapefruit trees were overgrown in her backyard. Grams led Mom and I to the side of the yard. Fat tender grapefruits splattered along the cement. Gramps stayed inside. He wasn’t a part of this and I wondered why. This was our thing, Grams, Mom, and mine.
I reached down to pick up a grapefruit, but Mom told me no. I saw the grapefruits in the trees and my little arms couldn’t reach them. It made sense to me to eat the ones on the ground. I could reach those. Mom picked one up. The skin was cracked all the way down the middle. The insides oozed out, a sticky, sweet and sour mess. Some of the sticky mess was on the ground where the grapefruit had been. Tinny black bugs crawled in and out of the goo. Mom tossed it aside. She made her point.
Grams pulled out a long green pole out of the tin shed. An orange basket with prongs forming claws over the top sat on top of the pole. She demonstrated how to use the fruit picker. She positioned the dangling grapefruit over the orange basket, hooked the prongs around the stem and plucked the fruit right off the branch. My eyes widened and my lips uncoiled into a brilliant smile. She took it out of the basket, peeled off the skin and we took chunks of grapefruit into our hands. The juice dripped from my fingers. I took a bite of the fruit and puckered my lips from the sour taste. I shut my eyes and fresh tears trickled down my cheeks. I kept eating it. The juice escaped from my mouth and ran down my chin. I wiped it with my sticky hand. It didn’t help. So I wiped my hand on my shirt and then wiped my chin with my now clean hand.
The sun streaming through the tops of the trees and the heat of the summer made that afternoon perfect. Being outside on that summer day watching Grams and Mom laugh at me (I didn’t know why) made the grapefruit taste that much better. Even though I hated the bitter taste, in an odd way it was delicious.
The next morning, we had the option of having grapefruit for breakfast. I was craving scrambled eggs and turkey bacon like we had the first morning Mom and I spent there that summer. Frosted Flakes, Kix, and Cheerios were my other options besides the grapefruit. Grams sliced a grapefruit in half and put the two halves in two bowls. She placed one bowl in front of Gramps and the other in front of an empty chair, her seat. Gramps took the sugar bowl from the center of the table and took the lid off. He took the tinny spoon inside the sugar bowl and scooped out a mound of sugar. He moved the spoon toward his bowl, a trail of white grains lined the plastic tablecloth. He loaded up the grapefruit, scooping spoonful after spoonful. The sugar melted into the pink supple fruit as if it were thirsty.
I sat in the chair next to Gramps watching him. You can eat it with sugar, I thought. I asked for some grapefruit. My legs dangled wildly when Grams put a bowl of grapefruit in front of me. I held my spoon in my little fist. I grabbed the sugar bowl and took off the lid. I used the teaspoon in my fist to scoop out the sugar, much bigger than the tiny one shoved into the white grains. I sprinkled a teaspoon of sugar onto the fruit and it drank the white grains quickly. I stuck my spoon into the fruit. Struggling to work the first piece onto my spoon, I finally popped it into my mouth. The sour taste was strong, but the sugar started to overpower the bitterness. I puckered my lips. I shut my eyes. I swallowed. This grapefruit thing would take me a while to get used to.
Surprisingly, Grams kept it. But after learning that Grams kept every single card she was ever given, it didn’t seem that unbelievable that she kept my simple, makeshift card. I was honored that she had kept it all this time.
Grapefruit trees were overgrown in her backyard. Grams led Mom and I to the side of the yard. Fat tender grapefruits splattered along the cement. Gramps stayed inside. He wasn’t a part of this and I wondered why. This was our thing, Grams, Mom, and mine.
I reached down to pick up a grapefruit, but Mom told me no. I saw the grapefruits in the trees and my little arms couldn’t reach them. It made sense to me to eat the ones on the ground. I could reach those. Mom picked one up. The skin was cracked all the way down the middle. The insides oozed out, a sticky, sweet and sour mess. Some of the sticky mess was on the ground where the grapefruit had been. Tinny black bugs crawled in and out of the goo. Mom tossed it aside. She made her point.
Grams pulled out a long green pole out of the tin shed. An orange basket with prongs forming claws over the top sat on top of the pole. She demonstrated how to use the fruit picker. She positioned the dangling grapefruit over the orange basket, hooked the prongs around the stem and plucked the fruit right off the branch. My eyes widened and my lips uncoiled into a brilliant smile. She took it out of the basket, peeled off the skin and we took chunks of grapefruit into our hands. The juice dripped from my fingers. I took a bite of the fruit and puckered my lips from the sour taste. I shut my eyes and fresh tears trickled down my cheeks. I kept eating it. The juice escaped from my mouth and ran down my chin. I wiped it with my sticky hand. It didn’t help. So I wiped my hand on my shirt and then wiped my chin with my now clean hand.
The sun streaming through the tops of the trees and the heat of the summer made that afternoon perfect. Being outside on that summer day watching Grams and Mom laugh at me (I didn’t know why) made the grapefruit taste that much better. Even though I hated the bitter taste, in an odd way it was delicious.
The next morning, we had the option of having grapefruit for breakfast. I was craving scrambled eggs and turkey bacon like we had the first morning Mom and I spent there that summer. Frosted Flakes, Kix, and Cheerios were my other options besides the grapefruit. Grams sliced a grapefruit in half and put the two halves in two bowls. She placed one bowl in front of Gramps and the other in front of an empty chair, her seat. Gramps took the sugar bowl from the center of the table and took the lid off. He took the tinny spoon inside the sugar bowl and scooped out a mound of sugar. He moved the spoon toward his bowl, a trail of white grains lined the plastic tablecloth. He loaded up the grapefruit, scooping spoonful after spoonful. The sugar melted into the pink supple fruit as if it were thirsty.
I sat in the chair next to Gramps watching him. You can eat it with sugar, I thought. I asked for some grapefruit. My legs dangled wildly when Grams put a bowl of grapefruit in front of me. I held my spoon in my little fist. I grabbed the sugar bowl and took off the lid. I used the teaspoon in my fist to scoop out the sugar, much bigger than the tiny one shoved into the white grains. I sprinkled a teaspoon of sugar onto the fruit and it drank the white grains quickly. I stuck my spoon into the fruit. Struggling to work the first piece onto my spoon, I finally popped it into my mouth. The sour taste was strong, but the sugar started to overpower the bitterness. I puckered my lips. I shut my eyes. I swallowed. This grapefruit thing would take me a while to get used to.
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