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.