Yesterday was my grandmother's birthday. She was born August 1, 1887. That was a long time ago, but I have many memories of her. We used to visit her and my grandfather in their house on Ada Street in Chicago. It had crooked stairs that went up to a very spooky attic where we kids would sleep when we stayed over. On the first floor was my grandparent's bedroom. It was dark and always a bit of a foreboding place because of a picture of dead Jesus on the wall in there. If you stared at it for a length of time, his eyes would suddenly pop open. I know that it was an optical illusion, but back then it would scare the shit out of me. Then there was the crock on her dining room sideboard that I thought was a cookie jar. One day I pulled a chair up to the sideboard, climbed up there, and lifted the lid on that crock. I jammed my hand in there and ended up with a fist full of mushy prunes instead of a cookie. Probably the best of memories is the bread. My god that was some damn good bread that she would bake every Saturday. Yeasty, with raisins, and we would always grab it hot out of the oven. My least favorite memory has to be the shouting. There was a lot of yelling in that house. I used to spend a lot of time with my grandmother and grandfather, and they used to yell a lot. Once in awhile it would be because they were squabbling, but mostly it was because they couldn't hear very well. Anyway, Happy Birthday Grandma! Can you hear me?