(I come out from the back room of my store to find a woman lecturing a teenage boy for eating a candy he hadn’t paid for. She’s chewing his ear off, so as far as I’m concerned, the situation has already been handled. However, she comes up to the register to pay.)

Me: “You’re his mother?”

Woman: “Grandmother.”

Me: “Don’t worry about paying. Just tell him to call his mother and apologize.”

Woman: “Call his—?”

(She looks confused for a moment, and then narrows her eyes and nods sharply, turning to herd him out of the store.)

Woman: “She said we don’t have to pay if you call your mother and apologize, so call your mother!”

Boy: “Wait… What?”

Woman: “Call. Your. Mother. And. A. Po. Lo. Gize!”

(It’s a line I toss out every now and then when I catch kids filching, but I never really expect them to do it, so hearing his grandmother enforcing it was pretty satisfying.)

(My grandfather is the youngest of seven siblings. He and his oldest brother look very much alike and even have nearly the same voice, but they are fifteen years apart in age. However, as they grew older, the differences in their appearances became smaller and smaller. Fast forward 70 years: the oldest brother dies and my grandfather attends his funeral. A lady he has never seen before enters the church and spots him in the front bench with the other siblings. She goes white as a sheet and marches right up to him.)

Lady: “What are you doing here?!”

Grandfather: *confused* “I’m attending the funeral?”

Lady: “No, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in there!” *points at the coffin* “You’re supposed to be dead!”

Grandfather: “Ah, no, you see, I’m–”

Lady: “LEAVE, DEMON! OH, LORD, HELP US! THIS IS THE END!”

(And with that, she stormed out of the church, never to be seen again.)

(My maternal grandmother and my mother look very much alike, to the point that they are sometimes mistaken for each other. One day, it leads to this gem.)

Woman From Church: *to my grandmother* “Hello, dear, and how is your mother?”

Grandmother: *realizing she’s been mistaken for my mother* “I am my mother!”

(This takes place many years ago. My great-grandmother is in court to become a US citizen, when this happens.)

Judge: “What are the three branches of government?”

Great-Grandmother: “Executive, Legislative, and Jewish.”

Judge: “You’re Jewish?”

Great-Grandmother: “Yeah.”

Judge: “Do you know how to make blintzes?”

Great-Grandmother: “Yes, of course.”

Judge: “My wife tries to make them, but they always fall apart. What should she do differently?”

Great-Grandmother: *gives blintz-making advice that sadly has been lost to time*

Judge: “I’m approving your citizenship application. Congratulations.”

(As my grandmother has gotten older, her memory has unfortunately started to get worse. Whenever I visit, I ask her to tell me family stories or look with me through memorabilia she’s collected throughout her life. This is to help jog her memory, but also so I can write things down I think the rest of the family would like to remember. One day, we’re looking through a photo album together, and we come across a photo of my grandfather in his Army uniform.)

Me: “Wasn’t Grandpa so handsome?!”

Grandma: “Oh, yes! This was the picture he gave me before he left to fight in WWII.”

(We flip a few more pages, and a wallet-sized photo drops out from between two pages. I pick it up, and it’s of another young man I don’t recognize, dressed in a Navy uniform.)

Me: “Grandma, who is this? Is this Grandpa’s brother?”

Grandma: *squints at the picture* “I haven’t seen that in years! That was [Man]. He was a Navy man, you see?”

Me: “Was he a friend of yours and Grandpa’s?”

Grandma: “Sort of. He was the other young man I was dating at the time.”

Me: *trying not to sound too surprised* “What?!”

Grandma: *shrugs* “You know, girls always dated more than one fella back then, unless someone asked us to go steady. It was very casual. Why you young folks want to go steady with someone you’ve only had one date with is beyond me.”

Me: *trying not to laugh* “I’m assuming [Man] went to fight in the war, too?”

Grandma: *sighs* “Yes, he left right after your grandpa did.”

Me: “So, what made you choose Grandpa in the end?”

Grandma: “Hmm? Oh, because he came back first.”

Me: *now I’m losing it* “Grandma! That’s the only reason?”

(She just smiled at me before putting the Navy beau’s picture back in the album and going to make us some tea. While I hope this other man made it safely back from the war and lived a full life, I’m also grateful she chose my grandpa because, you know, I’m alive thanks to that decision. Funny how life works, isn’t it?)