It is mid-morning, on a Sunday. My phone rings. It’s Mrs. Leslie.
You’re grandma didn’t answer her door this morning when I stopped by to pick her up for church.
Her high-pitched cartoon voice trills into my ear, belying her generous size.
I sense panic behind Mrs. Leslie’s message. It’s contagious. My grandmother is as reliable as an atomic clock.
My head begins swimming with worst case scenarios. Mrs. Leslie, fortunately, seems to be calming down-her long forgotten Red Cross training kicking in.
I’m calling the police. And then I’m coming to collect you.
We arrive at my grandma’s house 15 minutes later-two policemen already on scene, as well as a clutch of curious neighbors, probably puzzling over what my well-mannered grandmother has done to warrant a visit from local law enforcement.
Mrs. Leslie hurries off, returning several minutes later towing one of the officers. He tells me what he’s just told her. As next of kin, I will need to enter the house and make the necessary identification. Of course I burst into tears. Mrs. Leslie clucks like a mother hen, and pulls me close to her massive frame. For a couple of seconds, my face and Mrs. Leslie’s ample bosom band together in a show of strength before I break away, fearing I might suffocate.
My grandma is not inside (thank goodness) but she has left a note on her dining room table.
Sorry to do this to you, but I just couldn't face another sermon about sin. It only makes me realize what I’ve been missing out on for the last 78 years. That nice retired dentist Mr. Sandy has taken me to Portland for the day, so I can have some cake (and eat it too!)
If you are going to quilting circle on Tuesday, I’d like a ride. And next time, you should come with me. It’s a shame to let that bosom of yours go to waste. (Mr. Sandy has a couple of eligible friends.)
Something a little frivolous from me at the 11th hour. This is partially based on a true story, too. My grandmother did go missing once, but not with any retired dentists.