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There are so many funny stories about my Grandma; most happened when my family was together. Any time my family gathered in Michigan, it was "humor season." Frequently, when someone told a funny story or joke, it was a toss-up whether the joke was funny on its own or made even funnier because Grandma was trying to stifle her laughter. There was evidently some code of etiquette or approved behavior for when, where and how loud you could laugh. This code was even more evident when we shared funny stories in a restaurant.

Grandma would work especially hard to avoid laughing when "sexier" jokes were told around "the grandchildren." There was an assumed contest between Grandma's kids, grandkids and great grandkids to determine who could make my Grandma laugh first, loudest or longest. First, she'd make a sound like she was clearing her throat followed by "tee-hee-hee," then chuckling would follow until she couldn't hold in her true laughter.

When my Grandpa was alive, I looked forward to dessert, not because of eating it, but because it was funny to me that my Grandma shared "just a few bites" of every dish of vanilla ice cream my Grandpa ever ordered regardless of how much teasing she had to endure. She had her justifications in order. Sometimes, she'd claim she didn't possibly have room for her own dish of ice cream, or that she really shouldn't eat any ice cream. She planned to share with Grandpa. She rarely took more than a bite or two, but we terrorized her through every mouthful if for no other reason than to hear her laugh.

Understanding that vanilla ice cream was meant to be shared, my favorite "Grandma out to dinner story" occurred in the 70s when my family lived in Pennsylvania. We took my grandparents to dinner at a restaurant called Graffiti. Each table had both a lady and gentleman server assigned. They wore Mafioso style outfits and were carrying very realistic looking knives and guns on their hips, thighs and arms. Rather than ordering from a menu, you "took out a contract" where your early demise was guaranteed if you did not finish everything you ordered.

Although we learned much later that it was encouraged, we found it surprising to hear my Dad's "commander" voice laced with sarcasm directed at our servers rather than quietly placing his dinner order like usual. My Grandma tried to hide her embarrassment but turned pink every time my Dad barked an order at the servers. She had a hard time accepting that "her son" was capable of being "so harsh,"

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