  Mornings at my grandmother's house, waking to the sound of Polka Radio in the kitchen and the smell of bacon. Me sitting, legs swinging, eating the scrambled eggs she knew I loved. Drinking the prune juice she poured at dawn after rising to set the table and begin another day. She never danced to the radio, but she was immersed in the music. She worked silently, smiling up at me occasionally from the stove or the sink. The sun would pour through the two big windows, across the table, and over the polished floor in big stripes. The polkas would play until noon, or was it only eleven? I never wanted to leave the table and break the spell. My grandmother wore bright rouge on her cheeks and lips every day, because in her time a woman did not leave the house unless she was made up.
She pincurled her hair every night and colored it, too, although she refused to admit it. So even when she was outside at 85 years of age, raking leaves in hard-soled felt slippers, woolen coat, and flowered babushka, she was rosy-cheeked and pink-lipped. Nearly still a debutante. I loved her enormously. Her and her Polka Radio. 
