It appears as though the Grinch has stolen the American economy. Moreover, it doesn’t look as if he’s bringing it back any time soon.

Every since 1957 when Dr Seuss, aka Theodor Seuss Geisel, invented the cantankerous Grinch, the annual telling of the Grinch story is as traditional as the Nutcracker. Christmas almost can’t happen in America without the Grinch.

Any toddler can tell you that the poor residents of Whoville have all their trees, trimmings, presents and feasts stolen by Mr. Grinch. BUT CHRISTMAS COMES JUST THE SAME! Eyes all over America tear up at this point in the telling.

We have a reality check about to occur. Will American children delight in playing board games with their folks as opposed to getting a 58 inch plasma TV under their tree? Can Christmas come for our kids without a boatload of toxic Chinese made toys waiting to be unwrapped? Can Christmas occur for the big folks without the latest techie gadgets?

Everyone professes to believe that the Whos in Whoville had a true Christmas, sans presents, trees and trimmings. But what if the Grinch’s heart, aka the American economy, doesn’t grow three sizes? We are probably about to find out the truth behind the legend.

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Over the river and through the woods was definitely not the route to my grandmother’s house on Thanksgiving or any other day. The road went past the factories and around the taverns.

My grandmother lived upstairs in a dreary German flat on Milwaukee’s south side. Even on the sunniest day her house was dark inside; the frugal Germans built these massive blocks of houses with only a few feet in between them.

My father dropped me off at Grandma’s house every Sunday afternoon, and I adored being there. My grandmother, a typical German Housefrau in her faded, sagging house dress and run down carpet slippers, was wonderful to me.

Her house did not have a single toy in it, but the hours were richly filled. When I was very little, Grandma filled the old fashioned kitchen sink, and I would stand on a chair and simply play in the water. She also let me bang on the old, out-of-tune piano for hours, a monumental act of patience on her part.

Grandma taught me Canasta when I got bigger. She also made a valiant attempt to teach me to crochet, but I could never get beyond the chain stitch. She was definitely more successful in introducing me to cooking. I watched with fascination as she rolled out homemade noodles and hung them on the chair backs to dry.

My parents came back at dinnertime. The evening meal invariably involved something with noodles and schaum torte for dessert. Ed Sullivan always followed dinner, although he was barely discernible through the snow on the TV screen. Grandma’s favorite show came next.

My grandmother, a staunch German Lutheran, was the biggest fan in America of the Yiddish comic, Molly Goldberg. She would have loved to have had Molly as a next door neighbor. My multi-cultural education began early.

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The lone duck was hunkered down in the sand on the beach in front of our neighbor’s cottage. We spotted him when we were going down the stairs to take a beach walk.

We both suspected a problem. Ducks are flock birds; a single one is usually sick or injured with a broken wing, bullet hole or broken foot.

We mutually agreed to take our walk in the opposite direction so as not to frighten this wild, possibly immobile creature. When we came back a while later, the duck had not moved.

“Don’t interfere with nature” is a wise rule. However, I suggested that we might bring a pan of water and a dish of cracked corn down and place them a distance from the bird. Rehabbers have told me that many injured birds die from dehydration.

I went back to work in the house, and my husband took down the food and water.

A short while later he walked into the house with a smile and said, “Don’t worry, the duck is fine. In fact, he came up with me. He’s on the deck now.”

I was incredulous. But there he was on our deck.

The duck was a decoy washed ashore by the waves.

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It’s election day, and I won’t have to call my kids and remind them to vote. I tried that once and learned my lesson.

Years ago I phoned my married son to remind him it was election day. When I was shortly into my diatribe, he asked me to stop.

“I know what you are going to say,” he said. “You’re going to tell me about your grandmother.” And then he added, “Of course I’ve voted.”

I laughed and reminded myself that it is wise to desist when your message has been delivered effectively. The following is what I didn’t have to tell him… again.

When I was growing up, we always got a phone call before every election from my long widowed grandmother. “Edward,” she would say, “can you please take me to vote next Tuesday?”

My father unfailingly assisted his mother year after year in the performance of her civic duty.

My father’s family was poor, and my grandmother lived most of her lifetime in a dreary “German” flat. She rented the choicer downstairs flat, thus getting a little extra rent income to help pay the bills. In her final years, climbing the steep, dark and twisted flight of stairs was almost impossible for her. But until the end of her life the pre-election day phone call was ritual.

I must add that she often told my dad, “I have to vote for Frank.” For those of you unfamiliar with Milwaukee’s history, Frank Zeidler was the last in a long line of Milwaukee’s socialist mayors. They studded Milwaukee with beautiful schools, parks, libraries and natatoriums.

To me “socialist” is not an evil word. My grandmother couldn’t possibly have been wrong.

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My husband is a dexterous juggler, and he has Halloween to thank for this delightful skill.