Tomorrow would have been Gramps's 96th birthday. It's hard to believe he's been gone almost seven years. I always used to think that if he died, I would completely lose it. I wouldn't be able to function. And while times have been pretty rough since his passing, and I've gone crazy a couple of times, I didn't completely lose it.
Since I don't do these things on weekends, I thought that this one should be about Gramps. I've told you all about him quite often, so I had to struggle to think of something. Maybe it's not all that glamorous, but here we go.
I remember when I was a kid Gramps had a very strict diet he adhered to. A veritable smorgasbord, if you will, of sandwiches. Every night he would make these towering sandwiches that would make Jughead drool. And he'd eat four or five of these giant things. I have no idea how he did it or even why, but he took great pleasure in his giant sandwiches.
And then after he finished eating he would pour one (1) shot of Jim Beam and take it down. "For digestion," he always told me.
I figured that's what adults did for dinner. Ate a bunch of absurdly big sandwiches and then have one shot of whiskey after. In imitation I would make a sandwich for myself (no more than that, I was still a skinny kid back then) and take one of his shotglasses so I could drink apple juice from it, thinking that when I grew up I'd switch from Mott's to Jim Beam.
I got the Jim Beam part right. A little too right, some might say. But I don't eat all that many sandwiches. Except for at lunch. And never more than one in a sitting.
It's too bad they never had sandwich eating competitions. Gramps would have been a stone cold killer at those.
Happy birthday, Gramps.
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