We kids were in a bubble of oblivion, sure that our grandparents existed solely to smother us with endless love, fun, and nosh

First, we would get smooshed with a kiss that lasted a tad too long.

Then, as steady as the traffic on the way up, as inevitable as one of us throwing up in the car, we got ices.

So what if we had just trudged through the foot of snow blanketing Bubba’s massive driveway? If we came in June, we got ices. If we came in February, we got ices. If we came, we got ices. Simple as that.

As far as I can remember, there were no rules. No rooms were off-limits to rambunctious little people, no knick-knacks were grabbed away from inquisitive little hands. So as soon as we had finished dripping ices over the floor and had gobbled down piping-hot sweet potatoes (at seven years old, I thought they were so exotic), we tore through the cozy old house, checking out what was new since our last visit. And with a grandmother who pulled over whenever she saw a “garage sale” sign, there always was something.

Sometimes there were piles of dog-eared books, or quirky tchotchkes, or used toys. Usually there were bikes or riding toys. Once there was a whole dining room set, its crushed velvet cushions a startling shade of mustard. And always there were stuffed animals, some as big as we were.

Was there a rush to get ready for Shabbos, as my grandparents struggled to accommodate our large family in their far-from-spacious home? Maybe. But we kids were in a bubble of oblivion, sure that our grandparents existed solely to smother us with endless love, fun, and nosh. And those ices, of course.