Every afternoon at precisely three o’clock, my Abuelita watched the beloved pianist Liberace on television. Dressed in an elegant tuxedo and seated at a grand piano topped with his trademark candelabra, he played popular songs while flashing his dazzling smile. Women adored him, and Abuelita was no exception.

She was wonderfully naïve about television and believed the performers could see the people watching them. Before Liberace came on, she carefully prepared for his visit. She’d arrange her curls with strips of paper, dab on a little lipstick, and sit properly before the television, her legs crossed neatly at the ankles. Though she understood no English, she smiled warmly and nodded politely whenever Liberace spoke, as if he were addressing her personally.

One afternoon, while Abuelita and I were watching the show, my older brother Gilbert burst into the parlor and changed the channel to catch the Yankees game on Channel 5.

“¡Muchacho, no!” She cried in Spanish. “What are you doing? What is Liberace going to think?”

She demanded that Gilbert put the show back on. Finally, in exasperation, he switched back to Liberace—then dropped his pants and pressed his bare behind against the screen.

Abuelita was horrified.

She stormed out of the parlor and, for several days, refused to enter whenever the television was on, terrified that Liberace might recognize her after witnessing such disgraceful behavior.

“What must that nice man think of this family?” she muttered sadly.

To make peace with my grandmother, I asked my friend Nick Piotrowski to visit. Nick was Polish, with slicked-back blond hair like Liberace’s, and I was certain I could convince Abuelita that he was her idol, stopping by to meet her.