My Pappa Doc and Nanny owned a doo-wop motel two blocks from the beach. Listening to old Frank Sinatra songs, we spent summers sunning out on the red wooden lounge chairs by the pool, hearing people play cards and laugh and laugh and laugh. Pappa Doc was a big, fat Italian grandfather and Nanny was his beautiful Irish wife, with eyes so blue and cold they reminded me of Antarctica. He gave warm hugs and always made us laugh with the creative expressions he said so as not to curse around the kids. "Pizzazz you dirty dog!" he'd yell, his back in full cramp, getting out of a big lazy boy. Nanny was sassy, but she loved us so and always cut open real aloe leaves when we'd get those horrible summer sunburns. Pappa Doc and I had the same birthday, September 17th, and he died a few days after our birthday. I never got to say goodbye. Nanny moved in with us after. Once so full of cuss and vinegar, she wasn't the same after he died. Slowly she withered away at our house until one day she passed too. Some days I miss them so terribly.
