Instead of being mollified, Grandma Jo’s brows drew down in irritation. “She shouldn’t be sharing that kind of thing with her daughter.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it isn’t proper.”

To my surprise, Grandma Jo stopped in her tracks on the sidewalk. We were on the razor’s edge of sundown now and the lights only reached one side of her face, but when I stopped to look back, I could see her eyes were wider and her mouth slightly agape.

“What?” I asked. Despite having my back to Arthur and his aunt, I sensed they had stopped as well.

Grandma Jo shook her head. “I just sounded like GGB,” she almost whispered in awe.

And she had. While I had been very young when GGB was still alive, hers was a presence that left a deep impression, which lingered long after she shuffled off this mortal coil. If there was one thing she liked to do, it was tell people when they weren’t being “proper.” And she didn’t limit her definition to manners, either. Oh, no. Where to place the salad fork or writing “thank you” notes was merely the launching point. For her, propriety encompassed a wide range of potential missteps in society, and though I had been six years old when she passed, which meant my memories of her were fuzzy ten years later, I had gleaned enough about her through family conversations to know that she scared me a thousand times more than Mrs. Buzzard—even with the burned pans!—ever could. I was pretty sure Dad would agree. He had never shared a story about GGB that implied affection.

Distracted, Grandma Jo ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair, which had been colored a multitude of subtle shades of blonde to brown for as long as I could remember. There was probably gray underneath it all, but I’d never seen evidence. Then she looked down the block to where it bisected Merry Street. In the gap at the front of the street we could see it was already full of spectators and also hear the music, though we had time before things kicked off.

“Let’s find our spot, then get some food,” Grandma Jo said, taking over the mantle of the evasive one. I was more than happy to relinquish the title. And though I was very curious what had caused that reaction in her, I didn’t press. Chakra-bartis were watching.

We secured our spot fifteen minutes after arriving at the parade route, though we had to walk extra blocks to find a space big enough for all of us. “Christmas Here with You” sung by the Four Tops and Aretha Franklin boomed from the various speakers positioned overhead via duct tape on light posts and street signs up and down the route. It was the antithesis of fancy but it got the job done.

We hadn’t even settled in when Dad found us in the crowd.