Genetics, Cured meats, Jewelry.

My grandparents from Florida are here for the Thanksgiving week. My grandmother, Frances is 85 and has perfectly blow-dried and coiffed white hair. She is afraid to go down escalators and has to be re-directed to elevators. “Going up is fine, but I won’t go near those death traps just to get to a lower floor.”

Her German aristocratic roots show when she immediately begins to criticize whatever she deems as inferior. To my father, “It’s great to see you, your hair is really thinning.” To my mother, “My daughter actually knows how to cook?” To my sister, “Are you sure you really want to have some dessert?” But I’m the oldest and first-born male grandchild and can do no wrong. All she wants to talk about is my Peace Corps work or how skinny I am.

Grandpa Jack is 86 and still actively involved in politics. He mailed me a picture from the Tampa Tribune. He was on the cover, holding a pro-choice sign on the street near an abortion protest. He is on the internet everyday checking the national and local poll numbers. He tutors elementary school kids who need reading help. He moderates a current events discussion group. He has the same sense of humor as me and it makes me cringe to see what I must sound like to my friends.

While at a jewelry store, my mom and grandma are looking at watches. Jack immediately walks over to the cute sales girl reading a magazine. He points to the 6-foot tall iron safe standing behind the counter. “Excuse me, do you keep your roast beef sandwiches in there, or is it pastrami?” The counter girl looks over to me to check if this man is demented. I shrug my shoulders and pretend that I don’t know him at all. She looks back at Jack, “Roast beef?” Grandpa smiles over at me, “Did you hear that Adam, they must keep their pastrami in the back room.”