It's 4/20, which means only one thing. No, not that. Although, that, too. So yeah, two things. No, I mean it's the sixth anniversary of my grandfather's passing. I went out to visit him today and to pour his airplane bottle of Jim Beam down his side of the grave. I didn't stay long because it was rainy today, and I managed to get in there during a brief break in the storm.
I'd usually write something good about him, but celebrating a death day is a little bit of a weird thing to do, and I'm afraid I might be giving the impression that he was a superhero of some kind. He had his warts, and you know how I feel about "warts and all."
So I'm going to show a little bit of his darker side.
Years ago I remember him complaining that no one knew how to make a real Manhattan anymore, so I sat down with him and Grandma to find out how to do that, so I could then make him (and myself) one. He and she broke out their old fashioned mixing set. He taught me how to do that while telling stories about the old days before my mom was born, when they would throw crazy Mad Men type parties. And then they started talking about getting married.
Grandma told me that, on their first night back from their honeymoon, after they'd eaten dinner, she got excited about being home with her husband and said to him that they could do the dishes together.
Gramps told her back then, as he set his knife and fork on the empty plate, that he would never, for the rest of his life, wash another dish.
I looked at Gramps while she told that story, and he nodded along like it was a familiar tune. No shame or guilt at all. I then looked to Grandma. She'd pursed her lips and nodded bitterly. "And he never did."
I felt very uncomfortable in that moment, and you know how hard it is to make me uncomfortable.
Gramps was my hero, but he wasn't perfect. It doesn't make me love him any less. Still, it was a pretty awkward moment.
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