We’ve all heard stories about how our grandparents walked miles to school in the driving snow, uphill both ways. Sometimes we even doubt the veracity of these claims. But I am here to tell you, the grandparents of the Maya really are tough. I was washing the dishes this afternoon in the neigbors’ basin, and the chikay (literally, “grandma”) came hobbling out of the house. She is wrinkled, uses a cane, can hardly see, and is probably three hundred years old. But she’s really nice and speaks amazingly good Spanish (a rarety in her generation), so I often exchange pleasantries with her.

“How are you today, chikay?” I asked her. She responded by gargling up a huge flegmy glop and hacking it into the basin, blood oozing everywhere.

“Mmmm, not too good,” she replied cheerfully as she blindly groped to find the bowl they use to dip water. Slightly aghast, I passed it to her. “My molar was killing me, so I yanked it out.”

“Um, who yanked it out?” I asked, unsure my Spanish was working correctly.

“I did!” she said, spitting out more blood. “It has been hurting for days.”

I regained my composure, and remembered that we have horse-pills of acetometaphine in the house, so I offered to fetch her some. She seemed pleased at the idea, so I got her two 500mg tablets.

There you have it. Did your grandma ever do THAT?