Great Gradma Jerry is the sweetest indulgence of all

By TY PHILLIPS
tphillips@modbee.com

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"Nobody can do for little children what grandparents do. Grandparents sort of sprinkle stardust over the lives of little children"

— Alex Haley

• • •

As me and the boys traveled to Great Grandma Jerry's house, I looked in the rear-view mirror to see Murphy giddily riding in the back seat, squirming in anticipation. The permasmile on his face told the story: It was his turn for a weekend of blissful sloth.

We pulled into Jerry's driveway and, before my truck had even stopped rolling, her front door burst open. She appeared in the doorway, grinning like always, no doubt having spent the previous hour impatiently watching out the window. Murphy threw his door open, ran up the sidewalk and disappeared into her arms.

It has been said that grandmothers are moms with lots of frosting, and that best describes Grandma Jerry. To my sons, she's 96 pounds of sweetness, aged 82 years. And when they stay with her on alternating weekends, she has one mission: catering to their every whim and desire. She always says her life's primary duty is to spoil her grandchildren; whatever the question, her answer is always yes.

This is all well and good, except for one minor problem: When our kids return from a weekend with Jerry, they loathe their parents and their home.

Now usually when making the drop, I come in and say hello for a few minutes and then leave. But, having received scattered bits of intelligence indicating the spoilage had escalated in recent weeks, I decided to investigate further. OK, I was spying.

Once I had carried in Murphy's clothes and toys, I walked into the living room to find both boys stretched out in recliners like lazy, regal cats. The TV showed some survival guy eating spiders in the Outback, and I marveled at how Sky worked the remote, having memorized all his favorite channels. After eating a bowl of some tasty rice dish I found in her refrigerator, I took a position on the couch, lying down in a comfortable pose as to fit in. Then Grandma Jerry entered the room, ready to serve.

"OK," she said rubbing her hands together, "would anyone like a snack?"

Without getting up from their chairs, Sky and Murphy put in their orders. I declined, careful to avoid getting too close to the enemy. However, when she returned a few minutes later with meticulously designed plates of salami, Swiss cheese, Fritos and manicured pear slices, I grew concerned I might stick out if I didn't join in.

"Would you like a snack tray, too?" she asked, leaning over me.

"Uh, OK grandma," I said. "If you insist."

She returned a short while later and handed me a beautiful spread. It was way more than I could comfortably eat, but I didn't want to be rude, so I devoured it. Cautious not to attract suspicion regarding my mission, I requested a second Pepsi. She must have put something in my meal because I began to feel quite sleepy. When I woke an hour later, I noticed the boys cheerfully eating ice cream cones. This was strange because they also had yogurt on their faces. And they both sat behind TV trays that held empty chicken soup bowls surrounded by cracker crumbs.

Yikes, I realized, it was worse than I had imagined. I sat up on the couch and announced to Sky that we must leave at once.

"Don't you want some ice cream first?" Jerry asked.

"Oh, I couldn't eat another bite," I said. "Unless ..."

"What?" she said.

"Do you have any more of those Klondike bars?"

The answer was yes, like it always is. A few minutes later, I realized my reconnaissance mission was failing miserably. And I noticed she must have put something in the ice cream, too, because I began to feel quite sleepy again. Having eaten three times without leaving the couch, I had succumbed to the power of Grandma Jerry's spell. Accepting that resistance was futile, I adjusted my pillow and blanket just so and drifted off into another nap. I don't know how much time passed, but I woke to find Murphy tugging at my arm.

"Daddy," he said, "aren't you going to leave now?"

"Sorry buddy," I said, rolling over on the couch. "But I've decided I'm going to live here forever."

Bee staff writer Ty Phillips can be reached at tphillips@modbee.com or 874-5716.