I’ve trotted this tale out here a few times, but it fits the topic, so what the hell!
My grandfather was a slow driver, even by old man standards; if he ever shifted into higher than third gear I never saw it. One summer when my little brother and I were kids (like 10 and 7 or so) he took us “into town” to the Dairy Queen as a treat. We were riding in the front of his pickup truck on the way home enjoying our cool treats with the windows rolled down appreciating whatever breeze could be kicked up by driving at about 20 MPH. My grandfather is thoughtfully slurping on his strawberry shake and my brother and I notice the truck is slowly drifting towards the side of the road. We don’t say anything and it keeps going. The next thing we know we’re slowly toppling into the ditch and we both leaned back just in time to avoid a tree branch now jutting into the open window.
My grandpa set down his shake, put the truck back into first gear, lurched out of the ditch back onto the road and said: “I’m gonna have to stop doing that.”
I was 13. I was in Alabama attending a family get-together. There were people there from Alabama, Minnesota, Michigan, Hawaii, and where-all. Not everyone liked each other, even some of the closer relations.
I was sitting on the couch in my grandmother’s living room. My mother was yelling at her sister for something, my uncle was arguing with someone I still don’t know, and a couple of my cousins were bickering on the porch. My grandfather stepped into the living room and looked around for a minute. After a moment’s consideration, he just said, “Naw,” and made a dismissive wave gesture with his hand. Then he turned around and walked back out.
At that point, my father (also a man of few words) turned to me, smiled, and said, “Smart.”
The funniest thing I heard my dad say happened when I was about 10 and he was about 45, so I guess he was an “old” man then. He and my mom had a ritual about drinking martinis before dinner was served. Being wrapped up in myself, I was offended that I was shooed away during their cocktail hour instead of having my parent’s complete attention. When my mom was preoccupied, I stuck my finger in her martini to see if it tasted good enough for them to ignore me. To the best of my recollection, it tasted horrible. When I asked them why they drank such swill, my dad said, “It’s the only way we can stand you little bastards”. Mom and Dad thought they were so funny.
When I was younger I was having breakfast with my dad at a diner. There were some old guys chatting up a storm at the counter. One of them said “You know what really burns my ass?”
He then held up his hand about waist level and said “A flame about this high.”
I never forgot that joke and still use it often 20 years later.
At the age of 78, my dear old granpappy had a massive heart attack, and needed triple-bypass surgery. Of course, the doctors gave him the standard schpiel about how he needed to be careful with his health, and watch his diet, and cut the cholesterol, and so on. Well, he went right on eating kielbasi and pierogis and wild game. Said he figured it took 78 years the first time, so he’s got until he’s 156.
Would have made it, too, I reckon, if he hadn’t gotten hit by that truck.
