Eighty Miles Per Hour

Lillian was my grandmother’s roommate during hip replacement therapy. The “Hip Club” they called it. Grandma was sad to announce the disbandment of the Hip Club during my last visit because two died, one moved away and a Hip Club of two sounds silly.

‘How silly,’ I thought. “A secret club of two is just what I’m looking for.”

It seems oddly convenient that old ladies often need hips replaced and that old ladies also love talking about their health issues. Twas a match made in joint-replacement heaven.

So Lillian is about 250 pounds and about 5 feet tall.

Lillian used to live in Staten Island and has one of the most revered accents in all the land. She wears fire-engine-red lipstick, on lips and teeth.

She also has a glass eye. The left one. When she and her husband visit my grandparents in South Jersey, she drives, because he can’t see once it gets dark.

“So I’ll see you in two hours.”
“Oh, make it an hour and a half”

See, because of her glass eye, Lillian only drives in the fast lane, blind husband in tote.

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