He had told his Mama, a long time ago, that his Grandma was the nicest person he'd ever known.
Once upon a time, when Papa was just a little boy,
he visited his Grandma Medvee every chance he got, as her house was only one mile away from his own, and from his earliest times he stayed with his Grandma as if she were his second mother (in many ways he loved her MORE than a second mother, as she was always his very good friend and confidant). Grandma was always very patient with Dougie, and the few times that she did become angry with him, she always did so in a very sweet way (one time she whacked him with a wooden yardstick and broke it in half, which might not sound so sweet and patient, but in reality it was such light wood that it did not hurt at all and Dougie burst into laughter, and so did Grandma).
When Papa was grown up, his son Harrison told him: "My Grandma is the nicest person I've ever met, in my whole life." Harrison was talking about his Grandma Larsen, Papa's Mama. It made Papa remember that he had told his Mama, a long time ago, that his Grandma (Mama's Mama) was the nicest person he'd ever known. When Papa told his own Mama that his Grandma was the nicest person he'd ever known, she smiled and said: "My Grandma was the nicest person I've ever known." She was referring to her Grandma Jacko, her Mama's Mama. It seems to be an unbroken descending line of niceness. Papa has to wonder, that his little sister, Pammy, is one of the nicest people he's ever known, and she most likely received this unEarthly niceness from her Mama (Papa's Mama) who received it from her Mama, who received it from her Mama.
Pammy was probably meant to be a Grandma someday whose grandchild would lovingly say: "My Grandma is the nicest person I've ever known!" Pammy, Papa's little sister, is that nice, but sadly she decided that she wouldn't have children.
One day while Papa did something naughty at his grandma's house, and Grandma Medvee told him that: "Okay, now I'm going to have to get you!" And she seized up a brand new yardstick (one probably made of balsa wood, which is so light a wood that toy airplanes that actually fly are made of the stuff) and she proceeded to chase her grandson round and around the dining room table. Papa laughed and laughed as he ran, and Grandma laughed and laughed as she chased him.
They finally had to pause for breath, both of them puffing, when Dougie shouted: "You'll never catch ME, fatso!"
Grandma made a shocked face, her mouth a small "O" of horror and dismay, and then she proceeded to chase Dougie again, round and around the table, until he finally let her catch him. She hugged him and kissed him and made him his most favorite snack of all.
Dougie didn't know it, but he had hurt his Grandma's feelings when he called her fatso. But the thing about children, especially five-year-olds, is that they call things as they see them, even if it is their most favorite person in the world. But Grandma Medvee never thought of herself as "fat." As a young girl and woman she was very slim, very pretty, and turned heads everywhere she went.
She didn't tell Dougie, or anybody else, but she went on a diet and lost over 20 pounds! For years afterward she would tell everyone, especially reminding Dougie: "My grandson actually called me FATSO! Can you believe he would call me FATSO?"
Unembellished: Although I'm neither adding to, nor taking away from these stories, it must be remembered that every recollection is recreated in the brain (the noodle works that way, it does not draw upon a static storehouse or upon concrete "memories," but like a mad scientist the brain bubbles up potions of chemicals and electric spark, and drawing from here and there amongst the neurons and dendrites, creates a new movie in the mind, every single time), and viewed through the lens of remembering me the way I was via the interpreter of who I am today. I am certainly as fallible today as I was then, whether two years of age, or four years, or forty-six years (and really, just as prone to tears!). But I capture these memories here, for my children, much the way my own Dada told me, and my sisters, stories of when he was a little boy. This way the memories go on, and never die.