The Day Grandma Rosie Was Starving
Disclaimer: I’m recounting a 30 year-old memory, nearly to the day. Don’t like my telling of it? Then write your own damned version.
Grandma Rosie was starving. And there was no way she was going to wait any longer.
I could barely hear her — the swing band was cranked pretty loud, guests were swirling and dancing, the wedding reception had reached peak joyful mayhem. It didn’t matter: Rosie knew that it was the damned dancing that was delaying dinner, so it had to stop. And there was nothing I could do or say that was going to hold Grandma back.
She marched up to the bandleader, a cheerful, freakishly tall guy sporting a white tux jacket and a thin mustache. She waved her hand to get his attention and, failing, reached up high to give him a poke in the kneecap. He looked around but there was no one there. A second poke was successful; the bandleader’s downward glance revealed a darling little old lady who was demanding his attention.
He smiled at Rosie and pantomimed that he couldn’t hear her. Grandma responded with more gestures and more shouts, but to no avail — the music was just too loud. I watched as she got ever more agitated with the bandleader who just didn’t get it.
It was just too much for Grandma to take. So she took things into her own hands, literally: she yanked the bandleader’s mic by the cord and, with as much vigor as an 87 year-old could muster, slammed it down to the floor.
A mic drop is famously loud. A mic throw? Well, you can imagine.
The crash was so thunderous that the entire reception froze — the band broke off, the dancers dropped, the conversations ceased.
But our stunned silence only lasted a second—the kitchen doors creaked open and out spilled an army of waiters, bearing platters of food.
And Grandma Rosie made her way back to our table, gave a little smile, and sat herself down to eat.
