grandmother Alica is another story. I could only remember very little of the happenings of the past. Probably it was a balm to the miseries that entered my life as a young boy.
It was a week after the funeral where I held the trembling hand of my little sister as the rabbi chanted the prayer for the departed. “Poor little Norman, brave little Norman,” as the kin and friends spoke in sympathy to me for the loss of both my parents in a terrible train accident. The words were strange in my mind, as I was only a freckled-faced boy of eight, a scrappy little devil who was not found of books, but of the ball and bat. My little sister Ruth, a cute little toddler in her sixth year, simply shed tears when spoken to, and she called for her mummy and daddy.
It was only grandmother Alica who offered us the needed shelter; for one reason or another our other kinfolk found a way to shirk their responsibility. Our grandmother had a comfortable pension and earnings to satisfy her in her elder years; and enough to care for us. She had a small run-down dwelling in an equally run-down part of the metropolis. It was a one story gabled dwelling of five rooms fitted with a few scraps of furniture and fixtures, and filled with the junk of memorabilia. Yet my dear grandmother Alica found room for her two grandchildren; she actually cleared one room and chucked the collection of junk, and bought the needed children’s bunks, bureaus and dainty items.
At the early evening hours we were snuggly covered in our warm blankets as we awaited the nightly bedtime story from grandma, which was promised to be a ghostly one. Despite the warmth we shivered in anticipation.
Grandmother Alica sat back in the hard comfort of the chair. A book of lore written