LouCille, my grandmother on my mom’s side, works at Preston Scientific in Anaheim, California, wiring computer components for NASA. Her apartment on West Ball Road serves as our family’s base of operations for Disneyland trips. The apartment complex has a hot tub, and around the corner stands a Fosters Freeze.
She’s kinda scary to me. A big woman, she wears gold bangles in her ears and on her wrists. I don’t think she likes children. Every year she buys a new car: a blue Camaro, a gray Cavalier, a white Impala.
My mom, Carla, is LouCille’s only child. My mom did not inherit LouCille’s stocky frame. My mom looks like a SoCal beach girl – like an extra from an Annette Funicello movie.
Grandmother lives with her own mother. My brother and I call Grandmother’s mom Grandma-Grandma. White curly hair crowns Grandma-Grandma’s head. She wears nightgowns in the daytime. Grandma-Grandma is kind to my brother and me. She pulls chocolate chip cookies out of the oven just as we arrive at the apartment.
LouCille says, glaring, “You boys sleep in the living room.”
We say, “I know.”
“You don’t know nothing.”