We called her Gramma Hart. My mother called her Ruth “did you put two in dear” Hart. She had a maid, Ola. Ola was a black woman with gold fillings - paid for, no doubt, by my Grandmother. The only apartment I remember visiting Gramma Hart in was 1100 East Avenue. My dad said it was one of many that she lived in, as she kept getting evicted for falling asleep while smoking in bed. (Or possibly her chair.)
Gramma spent 90% of her day propped up on the left side of her king size bed. The right side of the bed was an array of magazines, the newspaper, a tube of blood red lipstick, and the TV remote - which had only two buttons. One for on & off, and one to change from channel eight to channel ten or thirteen. Channel 21 came in fuzzy and only if you fucked around with the rabbit ears antenna. Which was strictly verboten. Last, but by no means least, was the large aqua blue stone ashtray. Emptied every few hours by Ola, and NEVER into the trash can lest another fire.
Gramma’s left leg, complete with stocking and shoe, stood in the far right corner of the bedroom. What was left of her leg, amputated just above the knee, rested on a pillow.
I think I was about ten when I realized why my mother gave her the nickname. Gramma handed me her cut crystal glass and asked if I knew how to make a drink. Having no idea, but much too afraid of the woman to say I didn’t, I shook my head yes. So I trotted off to the kitchen and filled the glass with ice, and then filled it to the tippy top with bourbon. Ola caught me in the living room and promptly took the glass back to the kitchen. “Now we always put a little bit a water in Ms. Hart’s drink,” she told me. Then she dumped most of the alcohol out and added water to the glass. “We don’t wanna haf another fire.” She handed me back the glass and told me when my Grandmother asks if I put two in, to say yes. And sure enough, Gramma asked,
“Did you put two in, dear?” “Yes, Gramma.” I lied, as I reached across the bed and put out the cigarette teetering on the edge of the ashtray.
