Raggedy - Granny

My sister Linda tried to kill me before I could walk, and honestly, that was the most normal part of our childhood. When I was born, she was seven — old enough to read, write, and apparently commit a low‑budget crib‑side attempted homicide. One day my mother heard me crying, walked in the bedroom, and found my head wedged between the crib bars and the mattress like a slice of bologna stuck between two pieces of Wonder Bread.

For those who know me today… it explains a lot.

Eventually Linda accepted that I was not a temporary unwanted pest but a permanent roommate she couldn’t evict.

Fast‑forward to me around six years old. My sister was babysitting, and while I slept, she decided to make me a doll like raggedy Ann. What she ended up with was not a normal doll. Not a cute doll (but it does grow on you). It wasn't even a doll that looked like it had a stable home life. No — she grabbed one of my father’s white T‑shirts, scissors, thread, and a needle, and created something that looked like an elderly woman who had survived the Great Depression and a tornado all at once.

We named her Granny.

Granny had no hair, two button eyes and a button nose and a drawn-on mouth, with the kind of smile that said, “I’ve seen things I can’t unsee.” We created a weird voice and laugh for her, in sort of a southern tone produced from the back of our throat. She had a laugh similar to that of someone chugging a gallon of paste in a cartoon! Somehow both my sister and I could do the exact same voice for her. It was our first shared talent but probably more like a genetic glitch we both inherited!

We made Granny part of my Barbie doll family — she was their grandmother! Linda made outfits for her out of scrap fabric and whatever clothing my mother wouldn’t miss. We built a whole Barbie house using books as walls, upside‑down teacups with upside-down saucers on top of the teacups as tables, sewing thimbles as cups, and large buttons as plates. Martha Stewart would’ve applauded or called a psychiatrist. Hard to say.

Then came the Granny Tapes — our audio‑drama era. Using my sister’s cassette tape recorder, we created entire storylines for Granny. We’d get so hysterical we’d be doubled over, making Granny yell dramatically or get loud out of excitement, until my mother stormed in to tell us to quiet down before the neighbors thought we were performing an exorcism.

One day, we were throwing Granny back and forth to each other, across the living room. Well, one of us threw her too high and she hit the hanging light, sparks literally flew, and instead of panicking, we screamed:

“OH NO — GRANNY GOT STRUCK BY LIGHTNING!”

And then we laughed like two children who absolutely should not have been left unsupervised. (Apparently my "unsupervised" moments started at a younger age than originally thought).

As we got older, we played with her less, but Granny was part of our sisterly DNA. We couldn’t (wouldn't) throw her out. Sometimes she got filthy, and my sister had to give her a “new covering” using another one of Dad’s T‑shirts or an old pillowcase. I think looking at her today- she needs another new “covering” — to which she had many over the years. Granny was probably the only woman in our family to get cosmetic surgery regularly!

When my sister moved to her own place, she took Granny with her — mostly because my mother kept threatening to throw her away like she was cursed. Mom hated that doll! At one point Granny disappeared, and I’m pretty sure my mother was involved like a thief in the night. Most likely a well-planned heist! So, my sister made a new Granny! Then she told my mother Granny will always come back! I think it was my sister’s way of telling Mom not to try any further tricks, without saying exactly that. If you knew my sister, this would not surprise you.

Eventually, Linda started hiding Granny in the back of our Christmas tree every year. She would lay Granny across some inner branches. A secret tradition between us. A silent guardian. Granny was probably the first "Elf on a shelf." Okay- well, Elf on a branch, but you get my drift. A bald little lone elf who had survived lightning strikes!

Last Christmas, she gave Granny back to me. YES! She still exists! She said Granny was made for me and belongs with me. Now Granny sits on my desk, staring at me with her button eyes, reminding me of every ridiculous, chaotic, hilarious moment my sister and I shared.

Call me a nut — but if you grew up with a lightning‑proof grandmother doll watching over you and made by your sister, you’d be sentimental too.

The Takeaway:

Sometimes things look strange, are silly, or just make you ask: “why do you still have that?” But end up being some of the threads that stitch a family together. Granny wasn’t just a doll — she was a witness, a co‑conspirator, a lightning‑proof legend who holds decades of sisterly laughter. Childhood doesn’t always leave us with perfect memories, but if we’re lucky, it leaves us with something fun, weird, and full of love to remind us of where we came from.

Humor Meter Score

Category                                Score                                                   Notes

Sibling Shenanigans        9.7/10     Attempted crib‑murder, Granny tapes & tree branch hide-outs.

Homemade Doll               10/10     Granny’s chaos & face could headline a comedy special.

Unexpected Violence      9.9/10     Doll hits light, sparks fly, children laugh. Peak comedy.

Nostalgia Factor             9.5/10    Wonder Bread, cassette tapes, DIY Barbie real estate!

Sisterly Bonding              10/10    Equal parts love, mischief, & questionable decisions.

 

 

Hello my readers. I want to apologize to all of you for my NOT having last Tuesday's blog story for you before New Years Eve. It wasn’t intentional. But here is this Tuesday’s story with all my heartfelt apologies. As I’m sure you all know, family members are involved in a lot of my stories. Today’s story involves me, my brother and sister: 

The 4th of July Rooftop Pool Fiasco

Back in 1989, I was living in a two‑bedroom apartment in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn with my then husband, Steve, and my first-born child. The kind of place where you could hear your neighbors argue and smell the beauty parlor’s perm solution through the floorboards. My other kids weren’t even a twinkle in my eye yet; they were more like a twinkle in the universe’s “maybe later” folder.

It was the Fourth of July, and my husband at the time was working for his father’s limousine business, chauffeuring people who were probably having a much easier day than I was about to. I invited my brother Tommy and my sister Linda over, hoping someone on the block would light fireworks that night, so we could at least pretend we had plans.

We hung out, played with my son, ate lunch, and enjoyed the afternoon. Then one of us and I won’t name names, but let’s just say beer was absolutely the fourth guest at this gathering — said, “You know what would make this day more fun? A pool.”

Not a real pool. Not even a respectable inflatable pool. Just something to splash around in like overheated toddlers at a daycare sprinkler day.

Tommy knew there was a store a block away that sold baby pools, so off he went. He came back triumphantly holding a plastic pool that was two feet tall and about six feet wide — basically a blue salad bowl for humans.

And that’s when it hit us:

We had no idea where to put it or how to fill it. Not one brain cell in that apartment had considered logistics. We were operating like three contestants on a game show where the prize was heatstroke.

We debated putting it on the sidewalk and asking the beautician downstairs if we could hook a hose to her sink. But she had closed early — probably sensing chaos in the air like a dog sensing a thunderstorm.

So naturally, the next idea was:

“Let’s bring it to the roof.” 

Because nothing says “responsible adults” like hauling a six‑foot round pool up a staircase like we were smuggling a large satellite dish AND pretending it was totally normal. Once we got up there, we noticed my upstairs neighbor had a hibachi grill there. He wasn’t home, but we took that as a sign from the BBQ gods. I had briquettes, lighter fluid, and matches in the apartment because apparently, I was always one minor inconvenience away from starting a cookout — so we decided we’d grill up there too. We hauled up chairs, toys for my son, a cooler, a radio and enough beer to make us believe this was a good idea.

We sat down, cracked one open, and then it hit us:

We still hadn’t filled the pool! Tommy didn’t have a long enough hose. Buckets would take forever. Pots would take even longer. We were brainstorming like three raccoons trying to solve a calculus problem.

Then I remembered:

We had just bought a brand‑new 30‑gallon garbage can that hadn’t even been used yet.

Perfect! We’d fill that and carry it up.

Well, we filled it.

It took ages.

And then, shocker — we couldn’t lift it! Not even a millimeter. Who knew it would be that heavy? Certainly not the three stooges that were drinking beer that day! It was like trying to deadlift a sleeping adult that had too much to drink. So, we regrouped on the roof, opened another beer (because hydration is important), and decided to bail out half the water. That meant more trips, but fewer hernias. We siphoned out half, tried again, and it was still heavy — like carrying an anvil tied to an anvil.

We got Linda, set my son up safely inside, and the three of us lifted that garbage can up the stairs like we were reenacting a low‑budget version of the pyramids being built.

We did this three times.

By the end, the pool was only half full, but honestly? We didn’t care. We were sweaty, exhausted, and slightly buzzed — the holy trinity of rooftop decision‑making while drinking beer.

We splashed around, grilled the food, and when the sun went down, the surrounding blocks lit up fireworks. From the roof, it felt like our own private show.

Was it worth the trouble? Maybe.

But it was me, my brother, my sister, and my son — laughing, sweating, and making memories like a family who had absolutely no business being in charge of anything involving beer, fire, or gravity.

And that’s what made it worth it.

The Takeaway:

Sometimes the best memories come from the dumbest ideas — especially when you’re surrounded by the people who make even the disasters feel like celebrations.

Rooftop Meter Reading

Category Meter Score Notes Planning & Logistics 1.2 / 5 like a GPS that rage‑quit halfway through the route Teamwork 4.9 / 5 like three superheroes whose powers are chaos, beer, and determination Physical Strength 2.3 / 5 like trying to bench‑press a sleeping walrus Creativity Under Pressure 4.7 / 5 like MacGyver but with fewer tools and more alcohol Pool‑Filling Strategy 0.8 / 5 like solving a math problem by setting the paper on fire Fun Factor 5 / 5 like a rooftop block party hosted by three lovable lunatics Memory Value 5 / 5 like a family legend that gets funnier every year