The other day, just four days ago, I was roaming NY state farms, chewing pesticide rich apples and handling baby ducks trained by a man named Lyle who, in addition to training ducks and wrangling reptiles for fashion photoshoots, owns a grilled cheese food truck in Harlem. At the end of this 6 day work jaunt, I drove a silver moped up winding New Jersey roads to the edge of a driveway where my dear Grandma Dot greeted me with a tearful squeeze. There are 91 years of life inside my grandma. Parts of her are New Jersey, some are New York, some skipped down to Florida, others resisted Illinois. She's old. She'll tell you right away when you ask her how she is. She'll do her crossword puzzle over coffee and toast. She'll question you about your whereabouts in life and hit you playfully if she thinks you're an idiot. She'll walk with her arm in yours and flirt with married men. She'll tell you she loves you and mean it. You'll feel it hit your abdominals. You'll feel it orange your body in warmth.