I'm so glad that's over

My grandfather passed on last Thursday and I drove from Montreal down to Hilly Billy Heaven, Pennsylvania. The entire trip was a clusterfuck of epic proportions and I'm glad to be home. I learned a lot on this trip though and I'll share some of the high points with you:

1. My grandfather looks funny with his teeth in. It had nothing to do with him being gone, he looked exactly the same. But with teeth.

2. It doesn't matter if your mom works for Customs, you will get pulled over at the border anyway and your car searched for no other reason than because they can. This takes the better part of an hour.

3. *Some* cops don't care if you're going to funeral. You can get a speeding ticket anyway.

4. My sister was pulled over by a cop who let her go with a warning. I'd say there were sexual favors involved because I'm catty and bitchy and jealous like that but her kids were with her and even I won't go there.

5. The Big O stayed home with the kids and while the house was wrecked and the children and the kitchen floor were sticky, no one bled from the eyes so I consider it a success.

All in all, I'm glad that Grumpa isn't suffering. He had a long, happy life and touched so many people. I love him dearly and he'll be missed greatly.

Grumpa

My grandfather was my first friend. Some of my first memories are of him. He owned an upper/lower duplex in North Tonawanda, NY. My father, mother, sister and I lived downstairs and he lived upstairs with my aunt. After my parents split and we moved out, he eventually sold that house and moved back to Pennsylvania. He had a small home that he shared with his wife. They lived on a couple of acres and would plant what he called a garden and what I would call a farm lacking animals. I went down every summer for at least two weeks. He taught me how to dig out new potatoes and shell peas. I learned how to drive a stick shift on the road that ran along the railroad tracks behind his house. There was an honest-to-God swimming hole off the tracks about a mile down and I'd try to get him to let me go whenever I could. He had smelly well water and a decent collection of comic books. All in all, it was a pretty good time.

He'd write me letters updating me on the happenings in his life from time to time and as I grew from a little girl into an obnoxious adolescent, I responded less and less. This inspired him to start calling me PLK, short for Poor Little Kid Who Doesn't Have A Grandpa. He was convinced that I had learned nothing in school and had somehow manipulated my teachers into passing me even though I couldn't write since I never wrote him back. I in turn decided that his sunny personality wasn't being properly acknowledged and began calling him Grumpa. He liked this immensely.

My father taught him how to use a computer in the most basic sense and he's been emailing anyone he could for almost a decade since his hearing has failed. His lack of punctuation makes for interesting reading but it's nice to hear from him. He likes to tell me about the weather, family I've never met and his gangrenous big toe. Again, interesting reading but he always asks after the boys and spells The Big O's name correctly. And he always, always signs them Grumpa.