Godfathers and Other Relations

In what has become an annual tradition, little brother traveled from Maryland to spend some time with our mother, the Grammy, on her birthday week-end. Included in the trip are always some must-do's, including Alumni Cafe pizza, fried clams, rum cake for the Grammy (type II diabetes be damned), playoff football, and the newest essential, the premier of 24.

Little brother arrived at about seven on Friday evening, and by seven-thirty we were walking through the door of the Alumni. My friend Bobby was behind the bar, which meant beer would be free and tipping would be generous. As I grabbed a stool and little brother bellied up (draw your own conclusions), I felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Jack, our cousin and brother John's godfather (a fact remembered by John but not by Jack), a regular at the Alumni who'd been playing Keno. There are few sights as lonely as an aging man sitting in front of a flat draft beer and staring at a Keno screen.

Jack left when his taxi arrived, and we summoned the nubile Taylor to order pizzas. Our family has been savoring the thin-crust, greasy, non-gourmet Alumni bar pizzas for decades. John ordered pepperoni, onions, and mushrooms, while I went for linguica (I swear I must have a little Portuguese blood in me), peppers, and mushrooms. The Celtics were on the big-screen, and every time we looked down Bobby had placed fresh bottles of beer in front of us.

The Grammy visit on Saturday went well. We found her in the activities room staring into space, but when I wheeled her back to her room and she realized that both her sons were present, she perked up considerably. As she devoured the dozen Oreos I'd brought, we went through the usual conversational cycle to which the Grammy is limited: How's Gordon/Matt/Erin, have you seen Spunky (her last cat, dead now 12 years), Spunky likes to play with Romeo (the bulldog next door), etc.

After the visit, we invited ourselves to dinner at a great fish joint called Haddad's, worming our way into an occasion planned by our brother-in-law Paul (my sister is in Siesta Key for the month), his daughter and my god-child (what were they thinking?) Paula, her husband Marc, and their two great kids, Megan and Joseph. We drove home, stuffed with fried clams and lobster pie, to watch the remaining Saturday playoff football.

On Sunday we celebrated the Grammy's birthday with cards, gifts, and rum cake. The birthday was actually Monday, but the Grammy resents sharing the 15th with Dr. King, whom she still regards as a troublemaker and possible Communist. The high point came when she opened brother John's gift, a stuffed tiger named Leonardo. When you squeeze his paw, he utters flirtatious phrases in a French accent and his long, thick tail switches back and forth.

"What's moving back there?" she asked.

"It's his tail," John answered.

"Well, we hope it's his tail," I offered.

"If it isn't, he's Superman," the Grammy deadpanned. Every so often, she's still got it.