Everybody Loves Me at the Jewel

Christopher Johns

There was nothing unusual about Grammie’s letter to me, nothing hyperbolic. It was a variation on a theme, like the Beethoven pieces she played on her upright Baldwin piano with great intensity, while bragging she only had sixteen lessons in her whole life.

While I never lived in the same town as her, she was always my first stop when visiting my family in Chicago, this time over winter break. Her Oak Park home was a much-needed respite. Anything to postpone being drowned in another over-the-top Christmas awaiting me in Chicago proper. Soon, I would find myself cooped up in an affluent Lincoln Park apartment, with a larger-than-life father barking orders and orchestrating all the festivities while permanently planted in the biggest armchair in the house. There would be a safety hazard of too many presents spread across the floor and a Buche de Noel for dessert that my diabetic father would insist we have, putting anyone into a diabetic coma. I was much more at home in Grammie’s modest 1920s cream-colored stucco house with green trim, or as she called it, her “museum.” This was toward the end of her life. Before her dementia crept in and consumed her. She was just my loopy, spunky Grammie I’d known all my life—just leaning more to the loopy side now.

We’d become constant pen pals, lonely souls at the opposite ends of the horizon for the next ten years. I couldn’t always keep up with her changing aspirations to tell her life story—sometimes a memoir, then a three-act play, and later coming soon to a movie theater near you. Similarly, she never questioned my recent move, uprooting myself from my bucolic Pacific Northwest college to get a room at the YMCA in NYC and study writing. We had an unwritten agreement within our letters, unbridled supporters of each other and wherever our stories took us. Her letters were her escape from the twenty-four-hour care she gave to my ailing grandfather. She wrote to keep her own clouds of senility at bay. The letters became more urgent when her husband passed away a year ago. They tried to fill the hole left by a man who had saved her life when she was three years old on the streets of Baghdad. They had been together almost ever since. Whatever fragmented story was stuck inside of her, it was now constantly rattling and urgently wanting to come out.

I had barely knocked on her door when it opened. There she stood, my diminutive grandmother, dressed in her signature white nurse tennies, a dime-store yellow-and-white flower print dress and her trusty babushka hiding her white curly hair.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she said with a big and infectious smile, a smile unapologetically revealing a few of her missing teeth.

She already had on her winter jacket and had been wearing it for at least half an hour as she waited for me. It was abundantly clear there would be no tour of her museum today. After a hug and a peck on my cheek, she grabbed my hand, and I helped her down her stoop.

Without any explanation, there was little doubt we were off to her supermarket. Anyone who knew my Grammie knew she loved going to the supermarket. It was her Shangri-la, her Mecca, the place where everyone knew her name. It wasn’t just any run-of-the-mill supermarket either. Any time she spoke of the place, her eyes lit up and sparkled like she was attending another premiere at Grauman’s Chinese Theater. This supermarket was befittingly named the Jewel and was less than a half a mile away on Roosevelt Road, the main drag of Oak Park—the Chicago suburb where she had lived her entire adult life. There were much better and more well-stocked suburban supermarkets you could drive to—with fancy lobster tanks and a wide selection of the finest cheeses from around the world. Those weren’t for Grammie though, and she flatly refused to shop at any of them. There was her one and only Jewel, and that was where we were heading.

My father had retired to Chicago, though he didn’t visit her often, much less accompany her to her supermarket of choice. She was always trying to lure my father to Oak Park with the promise of BOGO bacon at the Jewel. While he lived a mere half an hour away in good traffic, his only reason to stop at her place was that it was near O’Hare and on his way to yet another European vacation.

“Why would I ever need to go to the Jewel, Mother? I have a much better Treasure Island supermarket right by me," my father said, annoyed that he couldn’t find a spot to sit in her crowded living room.

“That’s alright,” she replied, trying to appear stoic.

Thinking that a joke would lighten the situation, he added, “And I’m certain they won’t allow any bacon in my carry-on to Paris.”

“That’s ok. Everyone loves me at the Jewel.”

This phrase became her standard refrain, a variation on a theme in her twilight years. It was often repeated in her letters or said to unsuspecting strangers on her daily walk. I tried my best to support her rightful claim, never questioning what it meant and happy to go with her to the Jewel anytime I was in town. There was no written-out grocery list, nor was she clutching any coupons. This was all irrelevant to Grammie, and I got it. She just needed to return to her kingdom, where she was loved.

The direct route to the Jewel from her home would take an average person ten minutes tops. It never did for us though. There were obligatory stops along the way to examine many a discarded item next to many a trash can. My Grammie made it a rule to never open a trash can to see what was inside.

“That’s something only hobos do.” 

But if a stray object was lying next to it, then that was something altogether different. It was fair game and open season. She’d investigate her “find” for a few seconds, while undoubtedly taking it no matter what. She was never that picky about her selections. She knew she’d eventually find some spot for it in her museum of never-discarded things.

Of all her finds, one of her most prized possessions was a larger-than-life-size Bozo the Clown mounted on foam core—adorned with his signature fire-engine-red wild hair, googly wide eyes and a crazy smile that measured three feet wide. It hung right inside the entrance of her house—her version of a “Welcome to My Home” sign. Most entering her home were affronted, almost accosted by this humongous and outlandish clown. To her, she felt a special kinship towards Bozo, the world-renowned performer who also originally hailed from Chicago like her. He was absolutely part of her “A” tour when you came to visit. It was the Mona Lisa of her museum.

“It’s the Bozo Lisa! Whad’ya think of that, fella?” she’d always say, as if I’d never heard her joke before. Then she’d smile so big, it rivaled her famous clown.

“Why would anyone think of throwing out this wonderful clown. Their loss!” she’d say, shaking her head in disbelief.

She didn’t see garbage cans the way most people do. Her life began near one. She was from unknown origins, either Kurdish or Armenian, living on the streets of Baghdad in 1914. She could have come to Baghdad with her family as they fled the Turks—her parents later abandoning her or were killed. At the age of three, she was found by a garbage can, desperately trying to stay alive on whatever scraps she could find. She didn’t remember the garbage cans or her early days of how she got there in the first place. How could you, at three? It was through other people’s stories and hazy images she had in her own head that she tried to piece her life together. She didn’t remember those days—or how a fourteen-year-old boy on his way home from school found this street waif by those garbage cans. She didn’t remember how this kind boy took her home. She didn’t remember his family taking her in and adopting her. All that she could recall was a bracelet her grandfather bought her in the business district where they often walked together. Her only memory, when boarding the SS Olympic for America at eight years old with her new family, was of the tears that flowed from what she left behind. Now, in the late 1980s, she was one of the older survivors of the Medz Yeghern, the genocide that befell the Armenians. And she was still searching for her own history.

Today there weren’t too many obstacles on our walk, it being Tuesday, and the trash collectors had come earlier. She did spot a stray cookie tin that the trash men failed to pick up a few blocks from her house. Seeing it, I knew our journey to the Jewel would come to a halt. There was no resisting a discarded tin in Grammie’s eyes. Not only was this a practical find for her, but it was also a source of principle and great consternation. She was the proud owner of many a cookie tin dating back to World War II. These tins were all stacked up on the top shelves of her pantry, with the overflow lining shelf after shelf in her basement. Grammie was a prolific baker, and these tins were in perpetual demand. For those special family and friends, there would be a package of baked goods in transit across the country on a bimonthly basis—a steady stream of Grammie’s butter cookies, nut tarts lightly covered in powdered sugar and placed in egg cartons, her not-so-popular Mrs. Bird cake and her famous zucchini bread.

With the gift of the cakes, a reciprocal “thank you” letter was in order from the recipient. An unspoken requirement of this letter would be a “statement of intent” for said cookie tin, and what would be done with it after the baked goods were eaten and gone. These tins were not a gift—they were merely on loan to you. Grammie was not necessarily possessive of her stuff. She didn’t care if you kept the tin or returned it to her. What she did care about was that we followed her code for the cookie tin. Everything was put to some good use; nothing would be left behind, and nothing should be discarded.

This acknowledgement was a small price you’d pay to stay on her baked good list. My father was repeatedly taken off Grammie’s list over the years. Grammie would often threaten to give all his baked goods to the Jewel staff who loved her instead. He didn’t respect her code. There’d rarely be a “thanks,” never a mention for the fate of the cookie tin, as they were surely thrown away. He wished he could do the same thing with all the growing possessions that packed her home. But all would be forgiven when he’d stopped by to see her on his way back from his European vacation. After clearing a place for himself to sit, he’d reach into his carry-on luggage and pull out some fancy new scarf from Liberty of London. Grammie would then reinstate him on the list for a trial period of another six months—putting together a care package for him of assorted baked goods and a cookie tin.

Out on our walk, we stopped and investigated that metallic tin the trash collectors had missed on their route, recently filled with Royal Dansk Danish cookies. Her neighbor had got a jump on the holidays, devouring them all and trying to hide the evidence before any company arrived. Shaking her head in disbelief, Grammie didn’t need to speak to express her dismay at this tossed-out item. I concurred it was a darn shame and suggested we could pick it up on our way back. I really didn’t want to carry this secondhand cookie tin longer than I had to. She agreed with this compromise. Ten minutes later, her fast but tiny legs had made it to the place where everyone loved her. She had returned to her Jewel.

She planted her small feet down on the black rubber mat and activated the automatic door. A glow came over her as the door to the supermarket opened. With the cue of the humming overhead fluorescent lights, her smile grew. In her mind, this buzzing was the sound of the reporters at a Hollywood premier, all clamoring to get her picture.

“Over here, Mrs. Johns! Over here!” each photographer shouted, trying to get Grammie’s attention.

The giant fans were activated behind her now. No longer wearing her trusty babushka, her curly white hair began to blow freely with the fans. The black rubber mat leading into the supermarket wasn’t black at all. It was the red carpet and the entrance to the land of the Jewel.

She paused for a moment to determine which direction we’d go—which counter would greet her first. She decided on the bakery. There stood a young woman with a name tag that read Vilma. Vilma emulated a tough demeanor, her arms crossed and wearing a long-sleeve shirt that I imagined hid a multitude of tattoos.

“Morning, Mrs. Johns,” Vilma said and quickly looked away.

I knew this greeting all too well. It was the all-too-typical greeting that many service people would give my grandmother. It straddled the line between being perfectly pleasant while not engaging too much. This technique never worked of course. Vilma was no match for Grammie’s enthusiasm.

“This is my grandson, and he’s come all the way from New York City to visit me. He’s a writer, you know.” 

“Is that so, Mrs. Johns?” she replied in the same tone. “A writer, huh? Nice to meet you.”

“Well, looking to be a writer” I said, turning towards Vilma. “Nice to meet you too.”

When I turned back to Grammie, she was already gone. Scanning the supermarket, I noticed her white curly head two aisles down, briskly walking toward the produce section. Just when I caught up to her, the sprayer for the vegetables had been activated. On cue, Grammie made a slight twirl in the mist like she was Esther Williams in one of her many water-themed musicals.

And this is how I spent the next half an hour, trying to keep up with her while she cornered any employee trapped behind their counter. We made our way through all the counters and sections—the fish counter, the breakfast aisle, and the frozen foods coolers. She even cornered someone restocking the pet section with lots of questions on the best canned dog food, though she never owned a pet in her life.

At last, we arrived at the meat counter. I could tell this was Grammie’s favorite by the way she rushed up—in fact, skipped. Being in her late seventies was of no consequence to her. She could easily segue into a slight skip at any point, like she was still a girl back in Baghdad.

“Herb, this is my grandson. He’s come all the way from New York City to visit me. He’s a writer, you know.”  

Before Herb could throw in the ubiquitous “Hello, Mrs. Johns. How are you today?” she quickly continued.

“He’s going to write a movie about me. It’ll be a four-handkerchief story. It’s a good clean story and it’s all true. Everybody will see it.” 

Herb didn’t balk at this news. It was all news to me though. I wasn’t aware of a pending script or that it was coming soon to the big screen. Yes, I was an aspiring writer, but far from any proof of professional work. I was just throwing things at the wall to see what would stick—from self-indulgent poetry to making a lot of grainy black-and-white experimental films. I did appreciate her unbridled enthusiasm for me, be it all completely misguided.

“He’s got a connection in Hollywood. Harry Kurosawa, the famous director is going to make it.”

Again, no reaction from Herb. For me, it was just more confusion.

My grandmother continued with great conviction. “Harry just got one of those ‘lifetime whatchamacallits’ on the television set last week. You know what I am talking about?”

I most certainly didn’t know what she was talking about. Not about a "lifetime whatchamacallits on the television set.” Not about who Harry was. Still, after receiving dozens upon dozens of her letters, I became proficient in decoding Grammie. I now knew the difference between a thingamajig and a whatchamacallit.

After a pause, I got she was referring to the recent Academy Awards on TV. On the broadcast, the Oscars had given a lifetime award (aka “a lifetime whatchamacallit”) to ninety-year-old Japanese film director, Akira Kurosawa (aka Harry Kurosawa). I had written to her after the show, of how I’d been taken by Kurosawa’s speech, still brimming with passion and creativity at such a late age. I likened his zeal to her personal brand of spunk, both seniors still with a metaphorical skip in their steps. Where all this was hyperbole on my part, me waxing poetic—this connection was indisputable in Grammie’s mind. She was certain Harry and I were best friends. We did lunch all the time, and he would always take my calls.

“Yes, it’ll be on the big screen someday. Harry is quite the big deal,” she said.

I figured it was best to keep quiet. I never wanted to betray my unbridled support for her, despite the fact that my only connection to Mr. Kurosawa was paying for tickets to see a retrospective of his movies at the local art house theater.

“Is that so?” Herb said without the slightest bit of irony. “Who’d ya think should play you, Mrs. Johns? How about Meryl Streep? What do you think, Mrs. Johns? Meryl Streep can play anyone. She always wins the Oscars every time, don’t you know.” 

Herb winked at me and continued.

“Or even better, maybe Clara Peller? Clara could absolutely play you. You know, the ‘Where’s The Beef Lady’ from all the TV commercials? I’m sure people have told you; you look like the “Where’s The Beef Lady’?”

Grammie shook her head “no” to either comparison. And it was certainly “no” to Clara Peller. Grammie openly despised Clara Peller. She would tell anyone who would listen that she could have easily done a MUCH better job if she had been cast in those commercials. She was sick and tired of people saying she looked like Clara. She didn’t want to hear anything about it.

Herb was scratching his head, still stuck on who’d play my Grammie in the movies.

Grammie had long since moved on from this conversation and was onto something else.

From out of nowhere, she said with a gleam in her eye, “Do you know how high I can kick, Herb?” 

Herb again scratched his head. This wasn’t the typical kind of question most shoppers asked him. I too was perplexed. He shot me a look, like he was looking for help, a second opinion on this potentially dangerous feat.

“Well, um, I don’t exactly know how high. And I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Mrs. Johns. At your age and all…” 

For Grammie, it really wasn’t a question. It was more a declarative sentence.

“No? Well, I guess I’ll have to show you then.”

In her sensible white nurse tennies and flower print dress, she threw her right foot in the air, showing off her skinny limb and a bit of her slip. It was an impressive kick to say the least. Reaching over half her height, her leg went past the bottom row of cheeses, past the standard cuts of meat, and to the top row of premium cuts in Herb’s meat case.

Remarkably, her leg came back down gracefully after the kick. She didn’t lose her balance, despite Herb’s misgiving. She planted both back on the ground, raised her arms straight up in the air, and stood like a would-be Olympian.

“What do you think of that?” she said with an ear-to-ear grin on her face. “Don’t think you’ll ever see that ‘Where’s the Beef Lady’ doing something like that, huh?” 

I turned to Herb. He was surprisingly unchanged by her gymnastics display. A sly grin was now forming on his face.

“That was certainly one heck of a kick, Mrs. Johns. A doozy for sure!” Herb winked at her.

She smiled even more. I realized Herb hadn’t been worried one bit about her kick in the first place. I’m guessing he’d seen her gymnastics feats, landing her kicks on frequent visits to the Jewel. He was merely egging her on.

I too got over my alarm. And I must admit, it was a thoroughly impressive kick. I joined in the accolades.

“Nope, Grammie. Clara’s got nothing on you.”

She just smiled and smiled. She ran her hands down her dress to straighten it out, covering her slip and making sure it was all proper now. She put her arm around mine and quickly whisked me out of the store.

“See you again soon, Mrs. Johns,” I could hear Herb saying in the distance as the automatic doors swung open.

The giant fans had turned off, the Hollywood reporters had cleared out, and the red carpet was rolled back up for another day at the Jewel.

On the way back, there was no talk of BOGO bacon, Harry Kurosawa, or her memoir. Grammie was quiet and content as she held on to me tight. When we made the turn off the main drag and down her street, I could see that blue metallic cookie tin up ahead, still resting next to her neighbor’s trash can. As we came right up to it, Grammie’s eyes weren’t on the prowl anymore. Arm in arm, we walked right past that discarded tin without her even giving it a look.

Christopher Johns has worked in book publishing for twenty-seven years. He was recently accepted to the Iowa Writers' Summer Workshop at the University of Iowa with this autofiction piece. Written as a standalone story, “Everybody Loves Me at the Jewel” is also the first chapter in his novel by the same name. Set in between the end of the Spanish Flu and COVID, the story unravels one hundred years of narcissism that plagues an eccentric family for three generations. He currently lives in Kansas City, Missouri. You can read more of his work on his weekly blog, American Pilgrimages.