Iremember my mom remarking that her mother-in-law never completly pronounced words when she spoke. She would always leave off the last syllable. I remember my mother said this over the small kitchen table (I think it was really a folding card table) in my grandmother's Steubenville kitchen. She narrated to me as if my grandmother couldn't hear. Perhaps she couldn't; she was in her 70's.

I couldn't tell if these facts disdained my mother, or humored her. But she kept pointing things out to 9 year old me. "She never says 'giraffe,' it's just a 'gir' or a 'gira'." Her voice dropped in volume. "And she always says 'preg' instead of 'pregnant.' I don't think she likes the word. She probably thinks it's dirty, or disreputable."

Imust have looked confused. Or perhaps she was putting herself in the mindset of a 9 year old. "When she was young it wasn't like it is now. Girls just didn't get pregnant. It was a disgrace to be pregnant before you were married."I could see on her face that she was avoiding any names, but even at that ageI knew who she was thinking of. My sister. Her child had just turned two. The child she bore to a total loser, out of wedlock with no intention of a further relationship at all. There was something more, but I had no idea what it was.

As my grandmother neared the table with another plate of food for the supper she was about to serve, my mother sat up straight. I saw them both tense. Neither one said anything till the distance between them had resumed. My mother made a face at the salad bowl and turned back to me. "Your grandma thinks just lettuce with dressing makes a salad." She made another face. This one was more relaxed. "I suppose to her it is." I just kept looking at her, fascinated by these disclosures. "She doesn't know how good it is to have tomatoes and cucumbers and bell peppers."I nodded. At least I understood that, or so I thought.