It’s a proven fact now; not just a saying when one realizes one’s brain is running lightning speed without control. I mean there I was Saturday morning over the stove flipping my eggs thinking of how my dog will love sharing one with me and then I decide I better slice up some grapefruit before I let the healthy stuff rot in the fridge. Now I asked myself, I only let lettuce go bad, so who is beating me up in my head? I then placed the grapefruit on the counter and began cutting it in half.
“You know my Papa Leo, your great-grandfather, used to wear a hat like this on his head.” I was instantly thrown back to being six, in the kitchen with my Big Mama Clara and her childish grin.
“What do you mean Big Mama?” I asked her spirit living on in memory only.
Grandma replied, “let me show you my little girl,” as she quickly glommed down the meat of the grapefruit. Then with her infectious ear to ear smile she said, “yea, Papa Leo used to wear a hat like this on his head every day.”
I never saw a hat like that. I didn’t know what was so funny, but I laughed anyways. I was just happy to be in the presence of Big Mama’s laughter.
Then she opened the refrigerator and grabbed a lemon and proceeded to cut it in half saying, “let’s make you a Papa Leo hat, too.” This time the tart lemon had her squinting and squirming funny faces as she managed with difficulty to say, “this Vitamin C would have helped me, and a lot of people not get scurvy in the lager at Auschwitz, I was in. So, I eat one every day, now.” Again, I didn’t know what she was talking about; but I made sure to make note, so I find out with the passing of age. Big Mama’s funny grimaces helped me remember with heartwarming effects. They were so much better than the horrific monster face memories Mother pressed upon me.
Big Mama then placed the hollowed-out lemon peel on my head and said, “That looks more like a bump on your head than a yarmulke, and God knows you don’t need another one of those. You get plenty of those from your mother.”
I shrugged my shoulders. I knew all too well what she meant about the hurting bumps under my hair.
“Okay, we don’t waste anything around here. My Mother Regina used to tell me only rich people have garbage. They are the only ones who can afford to throw anything away.” With that, Big Mama removed the grapefruit crown, placing it on the kitchen table and placed the lemon rind into her mouth, covering her teeth grunting and howling like a monkey. Now that I fully understood every bit of, and I laughed so hard I let out a little pee.
After the cackle of laughter died down, I placed the shelled grapefruit half onto Big Mama’s head, the same way she wore it pretending to be Papa Leo.
Laughter suddenly came to a screeching halt. Big Mama sternly exclaimed, “this is sanctimonious sacrilege! My people have suffered enough.”
My heart fell heavily into the pit of my stomach. I held my breath not knowing what I did wrong and what to do next.
She must have seen the worry on my face because in the next breath she turned the hollowed-out grapefruit half upside down and said, “But a crowned monkey is perfectly acceptable!”
I laughed hard from salvation and Big Mama laughed so hard she had to break out her hanky to wipe away her tears. In my later years, I had come to wonder if she was really laughing or crying. So many times, she employed her handy hanky in the strangest moments turning herself away until she could regain composure. She would turn herself around with a mix of emotions simultaneously giggling and cry blaming her “sensitive eyes on the slightest bit of wind blowing the wrong way” as the reason her tear ducts worked overtime.
Yup, and now here I am years older than my Big Mama who died at fifty-six, cutting this grapefruit and stirring up more than eggs for breakfast. It’s funny how the mind has a mind of its own. Don’t you agree?
