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My Grammy is 93. She’s sharp as a tack, lives independently in Florida, still drives and wears as much bling as my 9-year-old. I saw her this week for Passover and my dad’s 70th birthday party. Every time I see her she’s dividing up her stuff.
“Jor, your mom gets the good stemware, but I’m giving the dishes to your sister because her kitchen color scheme is blue.” “I gave you the silver candlesticks, but the jewelry… the good stuff is going to both my daughters-in-law and then it’s their problem to divide it up between you girls when I’m gone.”
Oy. I’m not interested in her stuff … yet. (The jewelry is really beautiful.) What I wanted from her was information, secrets, wisdom, knowledge.
I asked a lot of questions, and she did her best to be evasive, self-deprecating, demure, and blow me off. When you’re born in 1920…
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