“Free Parking” is a charming tale that addresses the gap between generations. Its origin was a conversation I had with my daughter Rachel. I chose the game Monopoly as a nexus for the story because that was the board game that my mother and her sisters used to play with their mother. Family lore states that Grandma was so sedentary, her daughters used to move her token around the board for her.

All of our family traditions are stupid, but at least this one’s harmless. And just maybe Great-granny enjoys it, although she never says so to me. At eighty-seven, Great-granny doesn’t say much of anything. Not that she’s senile. She knows all her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren, but she just doesn’t talk anymore. Mom says she never talked much to begin with, so I suppose the adjustment was an easy one.

Great-granny has been in an old-age home for about six years now. It’s called the Golden Years, and it’s a nice place, especially in the summertime. It has a fenced backyard that holds a sweeping lawn outlined with beds of jeweled marigolds. Behind the fence sits Taylor ’s Woods, full of sweet-smelling leaves and crunchy bark that decays into soft ground that sinks beneath your sneakers. The backyard also has an old swing set off to the side. When I was younger, I used to pass the time swinging. Even back then the seat-a black leather strap-was cracked and dry, and the chains that held it creaked as I rose and fell. The rusty rhythm used to rock me into a trance, making the visiting hours go quickly.

But now I’m twelve and too old to swing, too old to play explorer in the woods. Mom expects more. Not that she makes me come. But if I’m going to come, I have to behave like an adult, whatever that means. I never liked the way adults act around old people. They’re uncomfortable with them, like being elderly is contagious. They’re freaked out by the palsies and the bladder bags, by the toothlessness and drool. None of that stuff bothers me, but maybe that’s because I’ve been visiting Great-granny forever. Besides, it isn’t that much different from my schoolmates, with Emma Tolosky munching on her hair, or Sammy Robertson squeezing his zits, or the worst… Jason Rathers picking his nose and rubbing it in his history book. I’ll take Granny over Jason any day of the week.

My family is considered a good one by the staff. We visit Great-granny with prune-eating regularity. Twice a week my grandma, my two great-aunts, and my mom trudge down to the home. It has become such a routine, it’s been ritualized-Tuesday afternoon there are the soaps, Thursday morning is the Monopoly game, and then there’s the bimonthly brunch picnic with all the aunts and cousins, weather permitting, of course. I’m only obligated to go to the picnics, because I’m in school. But this particular Thursday, some kind of teachers’ conference was called at my school, so I’m off.

Then Mom suggests that I might do a good deed and come with her. In an unusual burst of generosity, I say okay. I put down my book, put on my shoes, and climb way back in the van to make room for Grandma and her two sisters. Since we own a big car, Mom drives carpool.

My great-aunts have daughters, too, but my mom is the only one who visits Granny on a regular basis. Which gives my grandma lots of brownie points over her sisters. My great-aunts have tried to disparage Mom’s visits, Kate saying things like: “I’m so happy that Allison has so much free time. Connie works so hard as a lawyer.”

Or sometimes Great-aunt Renee will say, “Allison is such a caring girl. She should really think about becoming a social worker, like my Judy.”

My mom, who takes a very Zen approach to life, always chooses to ignore the barbs. Rather, it’s like she never even hears them in the first place. Nothing ever bothers her. Not me and my mouth, not my klutzy older sister, not even my hypochondriac father, who has yet to figure out how he got from football hero to middle-aged man. My mom has always been the eye in the swirling storm. All activity centers around her, but she never seems to get caught up by it. Always calm but caring, even if she is a space cadet. It’s better than Emma’s mom, who yells all the time.

Grandma, on the other hand, is not one to let things pass. Whenever her sisters would throw verbal daggers at my mom, Grandma Lion would get this steely look in her eyes and say things like:

“Your shmocial worker Judy has time for everyone except her family.”

Or:

“And your Connie has plenty of time to go to the gym but not to visit her own flesh and blood?”

Then Mom would take a deep breath and put on a serene smile and say, “Mom, Connie is Connie, and I’m me.”

Then Grandma would add, “Thank goodness for that.” Otherwise, Granny would never have any visitors under sixty.

Of course, Great-aunt Kate would have to defend her progeny. “Connie needs a way to burn up her frustrations at work, Ida.”

“So let her lead an aerobics class for the people here at the home,” Grandma would snap back.

Then Guru Mom would say in a calm voice, “Everybody has their own strengths.”

“Your daughter is very wise,” Great-aunt Kate would state with authority.

And Renee would agree, and that would be that until the next time. Until the next visit, when Mom would show up again and their daughters wouldn’t. And the whole thing would repeat itself in some variation or another.

When I show up, well, it’s almost too much for them to bear.

How sweet for Christy to come.

Isn’t she a special girl.

What a little love you have there, Allison. She must take after you!

Today Grandma wears a pink polyester suit complete with a matching plastic purse. Renee has on a bulky mustard sweater over black stretch pants. Kate has chosen a multicolored caftan and dangling wooden earrings.

Kate has been married three times. Last time she took the plunge, she wanted an alternative ceremony. My second cousin Sandy, her grandniece, played the recorder as Kate danced down the aisle and threw autumn leaves and dried rose petals from a basket she had made in her junior college art class. She and her husband, Hubert, made vows to the Earth Goddess, Ceres, and prayed for the release of the Mother Spirit. My great-granny had raised her daughters Baptist, but if she disapproved of Kate’s wedding, she never said so.

This morning both Mom and I wear jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers. My T is red, Mom’s is white. Mom made a vow to always wear white in some form or another because she says it symbolizes purity. She got that idea from one of the Eastern religion books on her nightstand. I think she wears white T ’s because they’re easy. Just throw on a Hanes special and you’re dressed for any occasion.

We arrive at the home around ten in the morning, time for Granny’s midmorning snack. Great-granny has her own semiprivate dining room containing four round tables, six chairs per table. Granny is about four foot five and weighs about one fifty, down from her former weight of two hundred plus. She started losing pounds awhile back, and everyone panicked that she was sick. It turned out to be a case of ill-fitting dentures.

Today the snack is ice cream, so Great-granny’s in seventh heaven. The dining room’s jammed, staff working fast and furious, so we’re expected to give a hand. I take to feeding Mr. Zarapata. Carefully, I give him measured spoonfuls of orange sherbet. But he becomes impatient with me.

“You feed me like a baby,” he croaks out testily. “Give me more.”

I give him a bigger spoonful. Of course, he starts coughing. I wipe spittle off his mouth. “Told you so,” I say.

“You little snot,” he retorts.