Man, that old Dodge of hers was a car. It loomed huge in the parking spot in front of her and Joe's house. I remember many rides in that pale blue over white battleship, hard plastic coverings on the seats so as not to ruin the upholstery.
Anyway, all good things, and Grams was looking for a replacement. About that same time me Grandpa Joe, her husband if I haven't established that by now, had gotten a beautiful maroon 1967 Chevy Impala off his sister Ruth. It was a very nice car; I remember it well too. Joe bragged on that car constantly, how well it drove, how smooth the engine ran, how good it looked. He was really pleased with that vehicle.
Joe had went out one evening, and when he got back home he found Grandma sitting at their dining room table. "Sit down, Joe, we have to talk," she instructed her husband.
He took a chair. "What do we have to talk about?" he asked.
"Ruth's car."
"Ruth's car?" Joe demanded. "What about it?"
Grandma Cosgriff held out her right hand, palm up, and said simply, "Just give me the keys."
"I bragged on that car a bit too much," Joe ruefully lamented to me Pops the next day at the Shop. But that was how me Grams solved her car problem.
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