by Betsy Bird
* * *
Dear Trixie,
First of all, never, ever, EVER use Comic Sans. It’s a horrible font used only by ax murderers and people who think acrostic poems are actual poetry.
Secondly, Trixie, I refuse to indulge this need to change your name on a daily basis—half the time I can’t remember your name as it is. Let’s not make it harder.
Thirdly, I would like someone to give me large amounts of money as well. I would also like world peace, the winning lottery numbers, tickets to the Women’s World Cup, and a drone to use with my GoPro—hooking it up to the dog’s collar just isn’t cutting it anymore. How many times can I watch Mr. Pickles lick himself?
I will, however, give you a dollar if you come clean Cupcake’s litter box.
Love,
Grandpa
* * *
* * *
Dear Trixie,
Papyrus is almost as bad as Comic Sans. It’s a font used only by kidnappers and people who think French fries are really French.
Also, I don’t have any money. I live on social security, canned mac and cheese, and air. Go bug someone else.
I love you,
Grandpa
* * *
* * *
Dear Trixie,
What, in the name of all that is holy, is this font you used? It’s burning my eyes! I can’t see! I’m melting!
I’m not kidding. That lettering is so bad I showed it to the cat and she threw up a hair ball. Don’t worry; I won’t make you come clean it up. The dog already ate it.
Now, please ask your mother to mind her own beeswax. And, for your information (and which you might want to share with your mother), Margaret Baker happens to be a former nun. And a corporate attorney with offices in San Francisco and New York. Truth be told, I might be the gold digger in this relationship.
The picture you sent appears to be cut from the antique book I gave you last Christmas. Are you threatening to hug Cupcake if I don’t give you money? Remember the last time you hugged her? I think the scratches are still faintly visible, if I’m not mistaken.
What’s with the letter writing? Shouldn’t we be texting like we usually do? Or Snapchatting? What’s the point of my Apple Watch if I can’t use it?
hmu,
Grandpa
* * *
* * *
Dear Trixie,
I feel like your last letter a) was yelling at me (never use ALL CAPS!), and b) should have been chiseled in stone and discovered by archaeologists at some Roman ruins. You must become more responsible in your font choices, or I can’t be held responsible for my actions.
I am lol-ing because you got in trouble with your parents. LOL. LOL. ROTFL.
Now, why exactly are you so desperate for money?
Love,
Grandpa
* * *
* * *
Dear Trixie,
That lettering makes me dizzy. Obviously you care nothing about my health or you wouldn’t subject me to such torture.
Also, here’s a little hint from the old guy: money can’t buy you happiness. It’s true it can buy you sea salt caramel ice cream with chocolate sprinkles, and that is really close to happiness. But in the grand scheme of things, ice cream melts and people who only like you for what you have (and not who you are) are worse than melted ice cream. They are the ice cream that falls off the cone before you even have a chance to lick it.
Whatever happened to the little girl who liked digging in the mud for worms and then refused to take a bath for fear the bacteria on her body would die—washed down the drain like their little microscopic lives didn’t even matter? I liked her. She was cute.
Please find that girl and return her unharmed in a brown, unmarked paper bag. Do not involve the cops.
Love,
Grandpa
* * *
* * *
Dear Trixie,
Your last letter was a bit worrisome. Was that real blood you used to write it? I hope so, because otherwise it loses a lot of its scariness.
Oh, let’s face it. You aren’t scaring me. Go ahead and put me in a home. The food has got to be better than the mush you keep giving me. What was that you made for lunch? Gruel? Porridge mixed with slugs? And did you add some dark chocolate?
Very fancy!
Still hungry,
Grandpa (aka Grandpa)
* * *
* * *
Dear Trixie,
You will never, ever have enough money to be Carmela’s friend. A friend will like you no matter what. Look at me. I’m your friend, and you have never given me anything but a headache.
I’m attaching a picture. I cut it out just for you. It’s like Snapchatting, except it doesn’t disappear in ten seconds. So it’s more like Slowchatting. Hmm . . . I should probably trademark that.
Love,
Grandpa
* * *
* * *
Dear Trixie,
You can’t bamboozle me, even with your fancy letters and fancy fake name. You want to take my Slowchatting idea all for yourself and make millions. I’m no fool.
When you get to the store, would you buy more dog food? Mr. Pickles is just about out and is acting quite hangry. I fear for my life.
Love,
Grandpa
* * *
* * *
Dear Trixie,
Why don’t we meet in the kitchen and eat some chocolate chip cookies? I know it’s almost dinner, but I won’t tell if you don’t.
Love,
Grandpa
* * *
* * *
Dear Trixie,
The envelope will be waiting for you when you get back.
I have filled it with a special treat.
Love,
Grandpa
* * *
* * *
Dear Trixie,
¿Qué pasa? (That’s Spanish for “’sup?”)
Love,
Grandpa
(who is older and cuter—being smart is overrated)
* * *
* * *
Dear Trixie,
You bring the shovels, I’ll bring the cookies. Meet you in the backyard in five.
Love,
Grandpa
Grandma in Oil Country:
A True Story
By Ursula Vernon
When I was about ten years old, my grandmother decided she was going to go look at her oil land in Wyoming.
Grandma’s oil land had never, to the best of our knowledge, produced any oil, but she had a certificate stating that she had inherited property in Wyoming, and she was convinced that it was only a matter of time before oil was discovered there and she became extremely rich.
Her fifth husband (who had also been her third husband—Grandma had had quite a life) decided to stay home in Oregon and play checkers. He had lost seven hundred and eighty-five games in a row, but felt that he was very close to beating the computer.
Before we left, Grandma had her hair permed. We weren’t sure why. Possibly she wanted to look good when meeting her oil land for the first time.
Perms in those days were expensive and took a lot of chemicals, so it was important that she not get her hair wet for five days, or else the curls would all go flat and straight again. She was careful to pack several shower caps.
Then my mom and my grandmother and I (and our suitcases) all piled into her car and started to drive to Wyoming.
Grandma had a chocolate brown Crown Victoria, with a matching brown velour interior. It was like a couch with wheels.
We drove for almost a full ten minutes before we stopped for brunch. Grandma believed that brunch was the pinnacle of civilized behavior.
After we got back in the car, we sang songs. None of us sang very well, but this was
okay because we were also all tone-deaf.
We went from Oregon through Idaho into Montana. Grandma had a road map, but she had spilled coffee over several key portions some years ago, and the route to her oil land was now a large brown blotch shaped vaguely like a chicken.
Grandma stopped at a gas station to ask for directions. Blinded by the glory of her hair, the man behind the counter asked her to marry him. She refused, so he settled for giving her directions to Wyoming.
“Take Beartooth Pass,” he said. “It’s the most beautiful drive in the country.”
“He gave me very good directions,” Grandma told us. “I bought a glass clown from him, since I couldn’t marry him.”
My mother sighed. Grandma put the clown in the trunk.
We followed the signs for Beartooth Pass.
The road went up and doubled back on itself, over and over again. There were enormous mountains, and when we looked up the side of the mountain, there were tiny cars driving on roads just like ours.
We kept driving. The road kept going up. There were no guardrails. Grandma was a very good driver, but Crown Victorias are not good at navigating hairpin turns up a mountainside.
As we drove, the gorges got deeper and deeper.
“If you drove off the edge, you’d have time to say the Lord’s Prayer before you hit the bottom,” said Grandma.
“Hush!” said Grandma. She gripped the wheel tightly.
We drove up and up and up in a tight spiral. My mother clutched the door handle. “Be sure you’re wearing your seat belt!” she told me.
(I am still not sure how the seat belt would have helped with a seven-thousand-foot drop off the side of a mountain.)
“Grandma, I’m nearly sure we’re on that same road . . .” I said again.
And then suddenly we crested the top of the mountain and there was a spot to pull over. It looked like we were standing on top of the world.
“It is beautiful,” said my mother. “That man at the gas station was right.”
“Of course he was,” said Grandma, fluffing her curls. “He liked my hair. Clearly a man of excellent taste.”
We opened the door, and the wind howled through the car, grabbing every stray bit of paper, including the map, and flinging it over the edge of the mountain.
I tried to catch the map, but my mom grabbed me because she was afraid I would run off a cliff without my seat belt.
“Well,” said Grandma, “there’s only one way off the mountain, I guess. We don’t need a map for that.”
We began the long, long drive down. We were behind a car with a license plate from Nebraska. Nebraska doesn’t have mountains, and we wondered what the other driver thought about Beartooth Pass. Since he never went more than fifteen miles per hour, he was probably extremely impressed.
* * *
Eventually, with a lot of gas station stops, we reached Wyoming. We were very tired and stayed in a motel for the night.
It was gray and rainy in Wyoming. Mom was still traumatized by Beartooth Pass and wanted to turn around and go home.
It was impossible to keep Grandma down, though. She was determined to go see her oil land. The next morning, she put on a plastic rain bonnet to keep her curls dry, and we set off to find it.
We went on a highway, and then the highway became a gravel road. And then the gravel road became a dirt road. The Crown Victoria rattled and bounced, going
BANG BANG CRACK CRUNCH
BANG CRUNCH THUD
“Are you sure this is the right road?” asked my mother.
“Of course I am!” said Grandma. She was always very certain, particularly when she was wrong. “I got directions at the last gas station.”
“Did he want to marry you?” I asked.
“No,” said my grandmother. “He was too young for me. But he drew me a map.” She held out a sheet of paper with squiggly lines on it.
At last we reached a squiggle on the map. I was expecting to see a sign that said “Grandma’s Oil Land.” I think she was, too.
But it was just endless flat brown earth.
“Is this it?” asked my mother.
“I guess it is,” said Grandma. She tightened her rain bonnet and got out of the car.
It continued to be flat and brown and endless. There weren’t even any trees.
My mother and I didn’t say anything. Neither of us had any idea what oil land was supposed to look like, but it did not look like this place was going to make anyone rich.
Grandma walked off the road and stood there for a while. Then she came back to the car.
“It’s oil land,” she said. “It’s not supposed to be pretty. You wouldn’t want to drill somewhere pretty and ruin it.”
She tried to get back into the car, but this was difficult because there were three inches of mud on the undersides of her shoes. She had to scrape them off while rain came into the car.
“It’s raining pretty hard,” I said.
Lightning usually strikes the highest thing it can find. Our car was the highest thing for twenty miles in any direction.
“Right!” said Grandma. “I’m sure this is prime oil land. Now let’s get out of here.”
She started the car, and it went forward a few feet and then went
SQUELL-LL-LL-LL-CH
We stopped moving.
The dirt road had turned to mud. The lightning storm was still coming. And the car was stuck.
“Never say die,” said Grandma. She tightened her rain bonnet again and got out of the car. My mother slid behind the wheel.
Grandma opened the trunk and pulled out a cardboard box. It held the glass clown she’d bought in Montana.
She took out the clown and put it
in the backseat
next to me.
It was the kind of clown that shows up in horror movies. I was afraid that if the lightning didn’t get us, we’d be eaten by the clown. And I would be unable to get away from it because my mother wouldn’t let me unbuckle my seat belt.
Grandma tore the cardboard box in half and put one half under each of the back tires of the car. This was supposed to give it some traction so that it wouldn’t sink immediately into the mud.
“Hit it!” she called to my mother.
My mother hit the gas.
The car went
SQUELL-RRNN-RNN-CRUNCH
and jumped forward.
My grandmother vanished with a yelp.
My mother immediately hit the brakes. (She said later that she was convinced she’d killed Grandma.)
Thunder rolled across the landscape. Lightning stabbed the ground.
Covered from head to toe in glop, like a mud-monster rising from the earth, my grandmother stood.
She stomped around the side of the car and opened the door.
“You’re alive!” said my mother, sliding back to the passenger side.
“Of course I’m alive,” said Grandma. “I just slipped, that’s all.” She sat down in the driver’s seat, getting mud all over the brown velour. “When the car went, I lost my footing and went down in the mud. I’m fine.”
She looked down at her muddy self and shook her head.
My mother and I stared at her. Her rain bonnet was half off, and her amazing permed curls were now coated in a layer of . . . well, of mud from Grandma’s oil land.
“Uh,” said my mother.
“Um,” I said.
Thunder crashed outside.
“It might have gotten a little wet,” said my mother tactfully.
Grandma flipped open the little mirror in the visor and looked at it.
There was a long, long silence. Mom and I held our breath. We’d come all this way over scary roads, and the oil land had been disappointing, and Grandma had just kept going. But now her hair was completely ruined.
<
br /> Grandma started to laugh.
* * *
After we got home, we figured out that the map from the gas station attendant had been wrong. Grandma’s oil land had been somewhere else entirely.
“Do . . . do you want to go back?” asked my mother.
Grandma thought about it. She lifted her hand to her hair, which was freshly permed (again) after its Wyoming adventure. The glass clown had been exiled to a display case, and all the mud had been scraped out of the Crown Victoria.
“No,” she said decisively. “I’ve decided I’m opposed to drilling for oil. It’s probably bad for the environment or something.”
We agreed that this was probably for the best.
One Hot Mess
By Carmen Agra Deedy
When you’re a kid you think your family is normal.
You assume everybody has a family that celebrates New Year’s Day with a Jell-O fight on the lawn, has an aunt who makes aluminum foil jewelry, or sets a fire in the bathtub on moving day.
A little background on that last one.
My parents were Cuban refugees. We grew up in a small Southern town where they worked, paid taxes, and went to church. As far as I could tell, they were pretty ordinary people.
Okay, so maybe my mother liked to clean.
A lot.
She descended from a long line of Iberian women who believed it their mission to rid the world of dirt and grime. In her defense, my mother’s grandmother and sister both died of typhoid fever in 1930s Havana. This terrible loss marked the beginning of Mami’s lifelong campaign against “The Godless Germ.” As part of her arsenal, she kept a spray can of Lysol disinfectant tucked in her pocketbook.
“Danger never takes a holiday,” my mother would remind my sister and me, as she sprayed down a grocery cart handle, “and nothing is more dangerous than The Godless Germ.”
I never thought any of this odd, until the year I turned nine.