Barbara Terao

My grandmother was a real character, the kind you tell stories about. We called her Mona. She once left a doll on the fireplace mantel, which I assumed was for me, the youngest child in the family at that time. Now I wonder!

 A widow, Mona lived in California and, later, Las Vegas so she could gamble away her money, which she told my mother, Joy, was preferable to leaving it to her and "that man," meaning my father, Frank Wolf. Dad failed in Mona's eyes because he was a mathematician and not as wealthy as she would have preferred. "You're like a slave taking care of those kids," she'd say to my mother.

 When I was four, our family had a sabbatical year in Berkeley, California, making it easier for my grandmother to visit us. She liked to bring us clothes, which I found boring. On one visit, I offended Mona by asking her why she never brought toys. That was the end of the clothing donations in my size. But I did find something in the living room after she departed. It was a demure Little Red Riding Hood doll, sitting on the mantel. When I noticed it, my mother handed it to me with no comment.

 As a happy memory of my grandmother, I've kept Red Riding Hood all these years. It only occurred to me lately that the doll was not meant as a fun toy, but as both an image of my mother and an editorial statement about my mother's marriage. Though not present, the menacing wolf of the fairy tale was implied. In the end, my

parents had the best response to Mona's jabs: they remained happy and in love all their days together.