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When I was little, my Grandfather-of-Blessed-Memory (maternal) came to visit us at 6 am every Sunday morning, arising very early to drive about two hours from Springfield to our Boston suburb of Chelsea.

Springfield would be considered “way out west” as compared to civilized and urbanized Boston, so it is like the country mouse coming to the big city.

He said the road was not busy and drive was relaxing and pleasant for him. But his visits were anything  but relaxing and pleasant for us, who would much rather have tried to sleep in on Sunday.

The exception was my paternal Grandmother-of-Blessed-Memory – who was also an early riser. Older folks often seem to get up early.

(That’s how I know I’m not old yet – I still love to sleep late). These two senior members of our family seemed to get along well.  Grandfather called her “Mother Goldstein,” and even brought her a nice bottle of (coincidentally named) “Mother Goldstein” brand kosher wine. There was one incident that I recall that upset a peaceful Sunday morning when I was about five. I came downstairs in my best baby blue lace dress to hear Grandfather yelling at Grandmother never to serve him that “horrible drink” again. Read more on Chicory, Belgian Endives And Me…

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