Karen's Grandmothers

by Ann M. Martin

  That made Friday pretty special. But something else made it even more special. In the mail that day I received a letter from Granny in the state of Nebraska.

  “Oh, boy!” I cried.

  I took the letter and ran to my room.

  I needed some privacy.

  “Dear Karen,” Granny’s letter began, “I am so happy to have you as my granddaughter and Nancy as my pen-pal granddaughter.” (I am really only her stepgranddaughter, I thought.) “Guess what,” the letter went on. “Nancy calls me Big Mama now. Isn’t that funny? I just love the name.”

  Hmm. Granny liked the name “Big Mama”? I had not expected that.

  Granny’s letter was two pages long. She told me about the new tractor and a bunch of stuff I already knew from Nancy’s letters.

  She did not send me any pictures. But she told me she liked the things that Nancy had been sending her.

  I had not expected Granny to like Nancy so much. Granny sounded as if she liked Nancy as much as she liked me. Was that because I was just Granny’s stepgranddaughter? I wondered. And what about adopted grandchildren? How did grandmas feel about them?

  There was only one person to ask. Nannie. She was the only grandma I knew who had a really-and-truly adopted grandchild. And that was Emily Michelle, my adopted sister.

  At the big house that night I had a talk with Nannie. I waited until after dinner, when the house was quiet. Daddy and Elizabeth were reading. Sam and Charlie had gone to a dance at the high school. Kristy was baby-sitting across the street at Hannie’s house. And David Michael, Andrew, and Emily were upstairs in the playroom.

  “Nannie?” I said.

  Nannie was in the den. She was watching TV and knitting. She was knitting a sweater for me! I had helped her choose the colors.

  “Yes?” said Nannie.

  “You have lots of grandchildren,” I told her. “You have Kristy and David Michael and Sam and Charlie, who are your regular grandchildren. And you have Andrew and me. We are your stepgrandchildren. And Emily is your adopted grandchild.”

  “That’s right,” said Nannie. “And I love you all.”

  “Just the same?” I asked.

  “I love you the same amount, but for different reasons. And the reasons don’t have anything to do with whether you’re steps or adopted or ‘regular’ kids. Grandmothers have room in their lives for lots of different kinds of grandchildren.”

  I sighed gratefully. “Thank you, Nannie,” I said. I kissed her.

  I felt much, much better.

  Goblins and Ghosts

  On Saturday morning, the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it!” I said. (I remembered to use my indoor voice.)

  I ran to the front door of the big house. “Who is it?” I called.

  “It’s me, Hannie,” said Hannie.

  I let Hannie inside.

  “Hi!” I said. “I have a great idea. Let’s work on our play for Grandparents’ Day. Wouldn’t it be great if we went to school on Monday, and we had a terrific play for our group?”

  “Sure!” exclaimed Hannie.

  “Come on up to my room, then,” I said.

  Hannie and I clattered upstairs. We sat on the floor in my room.

  “I have been thinking,” I told Hannie. “The people at the manor might not understand a play about super heroes. But Halloween is coming up, and everyone knows about Halloween. So let’s put on a scary play.”

  “Okay,” agreed Hannie. (Hannie usually agrees with me.)

  “Now what kind of scary play should we put on? Who will the play be about?”

  “Morbidda Destiny?” suggested Hannie.

  Morbidda Destiny is the name I gave to the weird old woman who lives next door to Daddy. I know she is a witch.

  “Or how about a play about a ghost and a witch? We could write one about Ben Brewer and Morbidda Destiny.” (I am pretty sure that the third floor of Daddy’s house is haunted by a ghost named Ben Brewer.)

  “Or maybe,” said Hannie, “we could put on a play about Georgie the Ghost. You know, the ghost in the books?”

  “Yes!” I cried. “I could be Georgie, the shy ghost. And you could be his friend Miss Oliver the Owl. And Ricky could be his friend Herman the Cat. And Nancy could be Mrs. Whittaker.” (Georgie lives in the Whittakers’ attic.)

  “But who would be Mr. Whittaker?” asked Hannie.

  “Oh. Hmm. I don’t know. I guess we don’t have enough people for a play about Georgie.”

  “How about Ghostbusters?” asked Hannie.

  “Would your adopted grandma know who the Ghostbusters are?” I asked.

  Hannie shook her head.

  “Neither would Grandma B,” I told her.

  We went back to thinking. But we did not get any good ideas.

  Some One Came Knocking

  “I need more yarn!”

  “Can someone please pass the glue?”

  “Ew! I have red paint all over my fingers!”

  On Monday afternoon Ms. Colman’s class was hard at work. We were making the macaroni necklaces and the pencil cups.

  Here is what you have to do to make necklaces: Take some macaroni. (Not cooked, because it would be slimy.) Paint the macaroni pretty colors. You can even put polka dots on it. Then string the macaroni onto a long piece of yarn, tie the yarn in a knot, and you have a beautiful necklace!

  To make a pencil cup, take an empty soup can. Make sure it is washed very well and that there are no sharp edges. Then cut out a piece of wrapping paper, spread glue on the wrong side, and wrap it around the can. That is all you have to do. Isn’t that easy?

  Hannie, Nancy, Ricky, and I were sitting together. We had pushed our desks into one big square. We were making the necklaces and pencil cups. And we were talking about our play.

  “Hannie and I thought we could put on a play about Georgie the shy little ghost,” I said. “But we need more people.”

  “You know what?” said Ricky. “On Saturday I got a book of poems. Some of the poems are really funny. I think we should recite poems.”

  “Nooo,” I groaned. “I want to put on a scary play.”

  “So do I,” said Nancy. (She wanted to be the star.)

  “Well,” said Ricky, “some of the poems are scary. We could recite scary poems.”

  “I like that idea,” said Hannie. “I wanted to be in a play, but reciting poems would be fun.”

  “I guess that idea is okay,” said Nancy. “Karen?”

  “Maybe,” I answered. “Ricky, what scary poems do you know?”

  “Well,” said Ricky. ”There’s a poem in my book called ‘Some One.’ I think it is scary. It is about a person who hears a knock at his door, but when he opens the door, nobody is there.”

  “Ooh,” I said.

  “I know a scary poem, too,” said Nancy. “It’s about a tree … a strange tree. One that is all twisted and it looks at you.”

  “Ew,” said Hannie.

  “Hey! I just thought of a poem that is funny and scary,” I cried. “It’s about a little boy whose name is James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree. He is supposed to baby-sit for his mother, only one day his mother says she is going down-town by herself, and after that she is never heard from again. Isn’t that weird?”

  “Yes,” said Ricky. “Extra weird. Hannie, do you know any scary poems?”

  “Let me think,” she replied. After a long time, she said, “Last year in first grade I wrote a poem about Halloween.”

  “Wait a second,” I interrupted her. “Is this the one that begins, ‘Black cat with a tall black hat’?”

  “Yes,” said Hannie.

  “Let’s stick to grown-ups’ poems,” I said.

  Hannie looked grumpy. But she agreed that we should all try to find scary poems, especially poems about Halloween. Then we would choose several to memorize for the Grandparents’ Day program.

  I could hardly wait to go poem-hunting.

  Young and Old

  Ding-dong.

  �
�Someone’s at the door!” yelled Andrew.

  “Andrew, use your indoor voice,” I told him. “You don’t have to shout. You’re sitting in my lap.”

  Andrew and I were at home with Mommy. I was looking at a book of poems. I was hunting for scary poems, or poems about Halloween. This took a long time. Andrew wanted me to read every poem to him.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” I said. “Andrew, I’ll read more to you later.” I stood up, and Andrew fell out of my lap. “Sorry!” I called as I ran for the door.

  Nancy was standing on our front steps. She was holding a letter, but she had a funny look on her face.

  Not another letter from Granny in the state of Nebraska, I thought.

  “I got a letter from Big Mama,” Nancy told me, as she came indoors.

  I sighed. “Another one?” I said.

  “Yes. But this one is different. Big Mama sent more pictures — see? They are of herself and — and Big Daddy. I guess that is what I should call your grandfather.” Nancy still had that funny look on her face. Now I knew why.

  “What did you think of the photos?” I asked.

  Nancy and I had reached my bedroom. We sat on the floor and let Emily Junior out of her cage.

  “Well,” said Nancy. “It’s funny. Big Mama sounds so young in her letters. She talks about taking care of the animals and working on the farm. But she looks old in the pictures. Her hair is almost white. And her face has wrinkles. Your grandfather looks old, too.”

  “But see? That’s just what I’ve been trying to tell you,” I said. “Looking old does not mean acting old. Lots of grandparents look old but do not act old. And some do not even look old, like Nannie.”

  “I know,” said Nancy.

  “Then there is my Grandma Packett. She is Mommy’s mother. She looks old but does not act old. Same with Grandma B.”

  “Tell me about Grandma B,” said Nancy.

  “Okay.” (Nancy had hardly asked anything about my adopted grandmother.) “Grandma B,” I began, “looks pretty old.”

  “As old as Big Mama?” asked Nancy.

  “Yes,” I replied. “But she likes to sing and dance.”

  “Dance?” exclaimed Nancy. She looked very surprised. “I guess that means she does not need a wheelchair. Does she need a cane?”

  “No. She walks all by herself. And you know what one of the nurses at the manor told me?”

  “What?” asked Nancy.

  “She told me that Grandma B talks on the phone every evening — just like a teenager! I think she talks to her children and grandchildren.”

  “Maybe,” said Nancy slowly, “Grandparents’ Day won’t be so bad after all. I do not think I will mind meeting Mrs. Barnard. I will probably be afraid of the really old people. But Mrs. Barnard will be okay, since she’s like Big Mama.”

  I smiled. I wanted Nancy to like Grandparents’ Day. I wanted her to like Grandma B. Maybe Nancy and Grandma B would even become friends. I did not want to be Grandma B’s only kid friend. I was getting pretty tired of dancing and of violin music. And I had decided that four grandmas were enough. I did not need to set a grandmother record.

  Some One Strange Came Knocking

  On a Thursday afternoon, Ms. Colman made one of her announcements.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, “we will hold a dress rehearsal for your Grandparents’ Day program. Does everyone know what a dress rehearsal is?”

  “No!” yelled Ricky and Natalie and some other kids.

  “Okay,” said Ms. Colman. “A dress rehearsal is a rehearsal when you dress in your costumes and you use your props. You put on the entire program from beginning to end without stopping, even if you make mistakes. So come in tomorrow with everything you need if you have a part in the program. Oh, and another thing. No more reading from scripts. You should have your plays and poems and songs memorized by now.”

  * * *

  Boy, Ms. Colman’s announcement surprised me.

  “Ricky?” I said after school. “Hannie? Nancy? Are we ready for a dress rehearsal tomorrow?”

  “I guess so,” replied Nancy.

  “We don’t have costumes,” Ricky pointed out.

  “I know,” I said. “But we haven’t memorized our poems yet. Well, I guess we’ll just have to work hard tonight. See you tomorrow, you guys!”

  Early the next afternoon, our dress rehearsal began. The first part of the program was a song about pumpkins. Natalie and Jannie sang it. They were wearing their pumpkin Halloween costumes from last year. They started to sing, “The pumpkin ran away, before Thanksgiving Day!” But Jannie’s pumpkin suit kept slipping down, and she began to laugh. She couldn’t stop. Natalie had to finish the song herself.

  Then a bunch of boys put on a play they had written. It was about a rocket ship blasting off, and astronauts finding dinosaurs on the moon. The boys had forgotten to bring in their dinosaurs, though. They used chalkboard erasers and lunchboxes instead. The play did not make much sense. They would say things like “Look! There is a diplodocus!” as they pointed to a Teen-age Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox.

  I tried so hard not to laugh that my face turned red and I snorted.

  Then it was our turn.

  Ricky, Hannie, Nancy, and I stood in front of the classroom. We were each going to recite two short poems.

  Ricky went first. He was going to recite “Some One” and “Strange Trees.” At first Nancy was going to recite “Strange Trees,” but then she found two other poems she wanted to recite, so Ricky said he would recite “Strange Trees.” He just decided to do that two days ago.

  I guess he didn’t know “Strange Trees” very well. He got his poems all mixed up. Instead of saying, “Some one came knocking/ At my wee, small door,” he said, “Some one strange came knocking/At my wee, small door.” And the end of his poem was more mixed up than the beginning. He said, “So I know not who had yellow wrinkles/At all, at all, at all.”

  Everyone laughed. Even Hannie and Nancy and I. But we did not recite our own poems much better. I called James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree, “John Jacob Jingleheimer Weatherby George Duschmidt.”

  When the dress rehearsal was over, Ms. Colman sighed loudly.

  “Class,” she began, “our program must be in much better shape before we put it on for the people at the manor. Your homework tonight is to practice. We will hold another dress rehearsal on Monday.”

  Ready, Set, Go

  “Mommy! Mommy! Today is Grandparents’ Day!” I cried.

  I had just woken up. Grandparents’ Day was the first thing I thought of.

  Mommy poked her head into my room.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Are you excited?”

  “I am very excited,” I told her. “I think I am ready, too. I know both of my poems. Listen to this. ‘James James/Morrison Morrison/Weatherby George Dupree/Took great/Care of his mother/Though he was only three.’ I know the rest, too,” I said to Mommy.

  “That’s wonderful!” she exclaimed.

  “And my clothes are laid out,” I went on. I pointed to the chair in my room. The night before, I had chosen my red-and-white-striped dress, red tights, and my very special black patent leather shoes.

  “Is it okay to wear my party shoes to school?” I asked Mommy.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Today is a special occasion.”

  Ooh. I just love special occasions.

  In school that afternoon, we held one last dress rehearsal. Everybody looked terrific. Jannie’s pumpkin costume had been fixed. It did not slip down anymore. Hannie and Nancy were as dressed up as I was. And Ricky was wearing a suit with a bow tie. We looked like we were ready to have our school pictures taken.

  The last rehearsal went well. Jannie and Natalie sang, “The pumpkin ran away, before Thanksgiving Day! Said he, ‘You’ll make a pie of me if I should stay!’ ”

  Then Ricky recited “Some One” and “Strange Trees.” He did not mix them up at all. I recited “Disobedience.�
�� (That is the poem about James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree.) And I recited a poem I had made up. It was about a girl who lived in a house haunted by a ghost, with a witch next door. It was much better than Hannie’s first-grade poem about the black cat with the tall black hat. And Hannie and Nancy recited their poems.

  When our group was finished Ms. Colman applauded!

  Soon school was over. At last, at last, at last it was time to go to Stoneybrook Manor. We gathered up all of our things — our props and costumes and, of course, the boxes of pencil cups and macaroni necklaces. We climbed on a yellow bus that was waiting in front of school.

  Hannie and Nancy and I squeezed onto one seat. We needed to be together. Hannie and I were gigundo excited.

  But Nancy was gigundo scared.

  “I do not want to go to the manor. Why do we have to go there?” she kept saying. She gazed out the window.

  “We are going to make the people at the manor so, so happy,” I said.

  “Yeah,” agreed Hannie. “They will like their presents. And they will love our program. I just know they will.”

  “Can’t they love everything without me?” muttered Nancy.

  “Oh, Nancy,” I said.

  The next thing we knew, the bus had arrived at the manor. The driver parked in a lot in back of the building. My friends and I climbed out of the bus.

  “Don’t Be Scared!”

  Ms. Colman led our class to the front doors of Stoneybrook Manor. The room mothers had come along again for the trip. They helped us carry the boxes of presents.

  At the front door, Mrs. Fellows greeted us.

  “Hello!” she said. She smiled a lot. She seemed very jolly. “Welcome. For all you newcomers, my name is Mrs. Fellows. Thank you for coming. We have all been looking forward to Grandparents’ Day. Follow me. I will take you to the all-purpose room.”

  I already knew how to get to the all-purpose room. I knew my way around Stoneybrook Manor very well. But I followed Mrs. Fellows, along with my class. And when I reached the room, I was surprised.