“Madam, could you please drive us to the Yale University Library,” Grandfather requested of the cabbie outside of the New Haven station.
“Which one Gramps?” she responded looking back at us. “There are a couple.”
The cabbie was in her forties, with obviously dyed blond hair. I didn’t like her. It had nothing to do with the way she looked nor the cigarette smoke on her breath. I hated when my grandfather was referred to as “Gramps,” or any version of “Old Man.” And especially the same day I had watched his slow movement toward the restroom at the Fairfield station. He was my grandfather who cheerily helped manage my infant awakenings, terrible twos and terrible other ages including my teenage years and never too busy or too tired for me. There had been several instances when I had noted h
