Call me an imp.

The imp who grew up.

“You are an imp,” she said to the little boy.

Gramma, my mom’s mother, Hazel Redhead, descended from a Dutch immigrant who came to the Hudson Valley in 1623, was a dear woman, just the way any impressionable child might imagine a grandmother ought to be. My two brothers and I could certainly understand the difference in when Gramma was pleased with us or not, yet I can’t recall any impression of a raised voice intended to inflict shock and awe on the misbehaving juveniles with whom she shared a…