…Poppy’s Patience Pushed… 😮

“Sam, I can’t stand it! Stop it right away”, She begged.

“Rosie let me be…can you”? He retorted…with his sweetish boyish expression.

It was a scene of loving bedlam, when my hovering mother, fed the visiting grandchildren & their grandfather, my dad.

This was after a full day at the Miami Beach shore, a block from their rented ground level apartment.

As soon as they could they pulled on Poppy to take them to “his” beach.

My small girls had cajoled their Poppy to carry them, one in each arm, while they splashed and frolicked in the Atlantic Ocean. He would all the while amuse them with stories of me, and my siblings, when we little like them.

“More…more tell us more, Poppy” they giggled. (They never had enough)!

Later on, the walk back from the shore they eyed a candy store and made him promise to buy them candy… after they ate.

So, to stop their whinnying…he would not say “no” to them…and they knew it.

My waiting mother, Bubby, gave them showers, then steered them all cleaned up, to the table.

One little granddaughter was planted on each of Poppy’s 73-year-old knees.

They were seated at the floral table oilcloth covered table, in the tiny dinette, with only a wee breeze slipping thru the old screen door and kitchenette window.

This small space had an aura and smell of European- immigrant Brooklyn/Miami beach uniqueness, of its own.

Its irregular walls were plastered with photos of these children, prominent amongst outdated, family pictures, from yesteryear.

There were faded black and white photos of children since grown-up, amongst those long-gone, in this collage of frozen moments in time.

A timeless medley of an old country, with American relatives in a portrait- puzzle. Who were they, where are they, what are they to us? Obviously to my babies…these people were just wallpaper…sadly.

The space’s aroma was of food that took hours to prepare and simmer on the old-fashion stove/oven tucked in the kitchenette.

In its half window above the one-legged sink, hung windchimes, & a pair of plaster smiling male and female chef face masks, adorned it's a piece of yellow wall.

These smells were exotic, and delicious to my 3rd generation American children…raised on mostly fast food.

This scene was in my aged parents rented, ground floor apartment on Euclid Avenue in Miami beach, circa early1960’s. Let us picture this pre-fashionable Beach neighborhood, before it was razed and buried.

Today it is the Art Deco hip South Beach of cafes & hotels.

Those days it as where immigrant seniors warmed their bodies from the harsh winters up North and Midwest.

Theirs was a one-bedroom flat with a tiny kitchen/ dinette/parlor.

Out the screen door was a cement patio with wooden bungalow chairs. It seemed filled with birds as my parents fed them daily.

Both of my youngsters were squeezing the food placed on Poppy’s plate thru their little fists, then eating some and feeding him, too.

Need I describe the mess this all made!

My father was kvelling with utter joy. The little ones giggling food particles all over their chubby, sun-kissed cheeks. It landed also in their mops of blonde curly hair, too.

Their Grandma on the other hand was frustrated that the meal she slaved over, was treated as “Play Dough”.

Such disrespect she felt! 😣

My mom knew they would need bathing…again, her chore. The flat would require her elbow grease to get back to her spick and span liking… after this spattered meal.

“Rosie dear please understand my food tastes sweeter sharing it with them this way”, that was my father’s only explanation.

My girls took it all in. This infuriated my mother that she was cast as “the mean grandparent”, while he was “the adoring fun… one”.

Following the feasting, their 2nd baths, and in their pajamas, they would drag him to the candy store, their shared secret.

Bubby was left to cleanup. The granddaughters & Poppy sneakily left the apartment, while whispering, under their breathe “Please… please, you promised us candy- we want candy”!

They didn’t stop until they got just what they wanted.

The little imps knew that Bubby would disapprove, but Poppy indulged them, anyway.

“Rosie, I’m taking them for a short walk”, he said letting the screen door slam behind them.

My father had “the patience of a😇 saint” with my girls…his only grandkids, who lived way, in North Carolina.

He adored them that is until…they pushed him to his limit!

On the last day of our visit, they overstepped even his tolerance!

The mischievous imps knocked out their old Poppy after a very humid, exhausting, long afternoon at the beach.

Both of them shared his lunch plate, then went out to the patio. There they played jumping on and off his aching lap. When they quieted down for a few minutes, he made the mistake of giving in to an unplanned siesta in his patio chair. His head hung down. 😴

My playful duo fell into a game beauty parlor. They eyed Poppy’s long wad of steel- colored hair, that he would ever so artistically comb, over his bald pate. It swept over from one ear to the other.

The apples of grandfather’s eye went to work. 😍😍

Sometime later they gleefully shook my father up shouting, while sticking grandma’s mirror in his face. “Look Poppy how pretty we made you”! they screamed with glee.

It took a startled moment for him to realize they gotten hold of scissors and cut off his precious comb-over hair… to its roots. 😮

Now my father had enough! It would take him a good year to regrow his wad of precious hair.

He went bonkers!

My mother she ran out the screen door to see what all the fuss was about.

When she realized what the girls had done…she laughed so hard so wet her pants! 🤣