The meat came from Gabriel’s Meat Market, run by Cousin Paul’s paternal grandparents; the eggs from the chicken and goat farm in nearby Easton, run by my mother’s cousin Josephine and her husband, Bob, the only Connecticut Yankee in our extended family. I loved going to that apartment for many reasons, in part because my grandfather Tony might be wearing his policeman’s uniform, eating early so that he could go to work as a special cop at one of Bridgeport’s many movie houses. He would always put down his fork to say “Hi, doll” and give me a bear hug. A strong but plump man with bulging biceps, he gave hugs that felt like pillows, different from the hugs I usually received from my father, who was affectionate but bony. I also loved visiting there because my mother’s parents were easygoing and cheerful, and there was nothing they liked more than to shower treats upon their grandchildren. Every week we each got a quarter, to be put into our savings account, and later, when their weekly donation doubled, we got to keep the second quarter to spend as we liked.
