Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • After his wife of fifty-five years died, my husband’s Grandpa Morris moved from Fresh Meadows, Queens to Los Angeles. There was a large community of Hungarian Jews in West Hollywood. He settled into a building where he had friends, some had lived in the same village where he was originally from.
    His Grandson Steve worked, at that time, in neighboring Beverly Hills. Grandpa Morris often walked the two and a half miles to Steve’s office to meet him for lunch, usually unannounced.
    “Like he was just in the neighborhood,” said Steve.
    Steve once offered to take him to a Hungarian restaurant for old times sake.
    “Grandpa,” Steve said, “They have the cucumber salad there, just like Nanny Erna used to make.”
    “I never liked her cucumber salad.” Grandpa Morris said.
    “Can you imagine,” Steve asked us, later, “All those years and never saying a word? He just kept eating the cucumber salad.”

    One time Grandpa Morris, went to visit Steve and his wife at their home in Santa Monica.
    “He just wandered off.” Said Steve. “We went into the house for something and came back outside and he was gone.”
    Time went by and Steve and his wife got worried.
    More time went by and Grandpa Morris finally returned.
    “Where have you been?” asked Steve.
    “Stevie-boy, I walked to Venus.” Grandpa Morris replied.
    “Venus?” asked Steve.
    “Yes, Venus. Venus Beach.” Grandpa said.
    “Can you believe?” Steve said, when he told us about this later. “Seventy-eight years old and he walks off from our house down to Venice Beach! And this is a town where everyone drives.”
    We all shook our heads and smiled.
    “No one walks in LA,” said Steve “But Grandpa Morris, he walked to Venus.”
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.