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.