I called my grandma “Boppy”. Actually, my oldest brother, who was the first grandchild, started it when he was a little guy learning to talk. Evidently when he tried to say “grandma”, it came out more like “Boppy” and the name stuck. All nine grandchildren called her “Boppy”. I had forgotten that until this morning when I read my daughter’s post. Katie has dusted off her old blog and is breathing new life into it, much to my delight. (It Is Happy to Love – it’s in my blogroll.)
Anyway, she wrote about a pillow she has, called a boppy. I read that word and suddenly I was transported to 1965 and the house just down the driveway. My grandparent’s house always smelled like pickles and spices and apfelkuchen (apple cake). There was a glass candy dish filled with candy corn and I could take as many pieces of candy as I was years old. Boppy watched “As the World Turns” and gave me art lessons. We looked through the pile of “Pack-O-Fun” magazines and picked out projects, although I don’t remember doing any of them. She let me rummage through her jewelry box and we walked outside to see the flowers in the garden. Whenever I was bored, or trying to get out of practicing the piano, I could skip down the back driveway and while away an afternoon at Boppy’s. She was never too busy for me and always made me feel like I was the best part of her day.
I wonder what Little Mister will call me. I suppose “grandma” will be ok. But I wouldn’t mind something original and quirky; a name that only one little boy in the whole world will have the right to call me. I guess I’ll let him decide. In the meantime, I’d better stock up on candy corn.