My grandparents, aunt, and uncle live about an hour away from here. My grandfather goes to the VA hospital that’s nearby; when he has the occasional checkup he will often grab a meal with me.
Today he took me out to breakfast. While he was sitting across from me he said, “So, I heard you’re going by Andy these days. Thought you might like this.”
He hands me a silver bracelet. It’s his ID bracelet from when he was in the Coast Guard during WWII- on the front it has his name, on the back, his ID number.
My grandfather’s last name is Anderson, which is my second middle name. He goes by Andy.
Yeah, he’s a really great guy. He likes to tell me about his time in the coast guard. Like on his first day when they lined everyone up for muster. The captain asked, “Is anyone an Eagle Scout?” Nobody was. “Is anyone a Life Scout?” Grandpa stepped forward. “Congratulations, you’re the chief medical officer.”
He said it was mostly treating scrapes and handing out pills for the clap.
I only knew one of my grandfathers. He also was a miserable mean sonofabitch. I regularly horrify friends with stories about him. I miss him a lot, actually. I think our mean streaks drew us together a bit.
My grandpa taught me how to spit, and how to play checkers. He also bought a lot of ice cream cones for me, on the pretense that he really wanted ice cream too. He inadvertently taught me how to cuss while baiting a fishing hook, too.
