Irma taught me how to do the Twist in the kitchen of our house on Satsop Street in Shelton.
Irma once tried to force me to eat artichokes when I was a child but finally relented.
I believe she was the first person I ever played tennis with, at Kneeland Park in Shelton (though it could have been Annemarie).
When I was in grade school, she tried to tame my hair with Dippity-do.
I also remember her teasing her hair and waxing her upper lip.
In 1967, Irma played “Little Bit o’ Soul” by the Music Explosion over and over on her portable stereo.
She bought me my first fish sandwich at the A&W on Mountain View—it was a revelation!
She was the only person I ever knew who owned a sunlamp—so she could work on her tan during Washington winters when we were growing up.
Irma drove me and my brother Harold all the way to Seattle to see our first concert—The Monkees—though she did not attend.
She introduced me to the pleasures of tomato, onion, and black pepper on an open-faced sandwich.
And she was the one who got me hooked on tacos—though it was bound to happen anyway.
Irma also loved German deli meats, cheeses, hard rolls, and above all pickles.
She drank Coca-Cola in the morning.
She once put a nail in a glass of Coke and left it overnight because someone told her Coke would dissolve the nail. It did not.
Irma seemed to walk as fast as most people run.
She continued to call me Freddy, my childhood nickname, long after I switched to Al (short for Alfred). I kind of liked it, though. It reminded me of who I was.
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