Gram had a couple of husbands and a few other special friends who were called Uncle this and Uncle that, six kids, some of whom were never really sure who their real papa was, and a loaded shotgun she kept next to her bed.

My first week in grade school, after several sessions with my nose stuck to the blackboard inside a chalk circle, I learned that I should only use ‘Gram-Talk’ when I was with her. Her pet name for me was ‘You Little Shit-Ass,’ always said with a mixture of love and malice.

At 11:30 every morning she had a tall glass of vodka and Coke, and sat down to watch her ‘Stories’ on television — a ritual she shared with me for the first time when I was 10. To this day, I occasionally drop in on one of her soaps, though I abandoned the vodka and Coke a long time ago.

She knew by heart every casserole and side dish you could possibly make with Campbells Cream of Mushroom soup and served them near constantly. A true devotee of the modern ethic, if it came in a box or a can, she liked it!

When she was 70, she had to set her motorcycle down to avoid a crash and broke her foot in several places. The family pleaded with her to sell the bike, but in a cast and on crutches, she grabbed her shotgun and swore she’d shoot the first person that made a move on the thing. Later that night, after she’d drank herself to sleep on the sofa, a half-smoked lucky dangling from her lip, one of my uncles rolled the cycle up into his truck and took it somewhere. She never forgave him – cut him out of the will and everything!