I had two.
One owned a
radio station,
drank, died of
Alzheimer's Disease. Grew up in
Colorado.
You see a lot of his face in mine. You also see a lot of his first wife, my
grandmother, the one he left,
the one my father never met, in me.
I remember the absent look in his eyes, and the various
Continental Credit Card gifts he had for me at birthdays.
A
China doll, a brass unicorn, an
piggybank elephant.
He bought an
abandoned hotel and filled it with
all he'd hoarded in 60 years before
we put him in a home.
When he died, there was a
21-gun salute and a massive effort to clean and sell the hotel. So great was our madness that we threw out most of the
books; I still have the
records. Discovered
the Weavers and lots of
Liberace in his record chest.
My other grandpa was a
farmer.
Potatoes, yes.
Corn,
alfalfa seed,
sugar beets.
Dairy before the heart attack. He lived in dusty country; he grew his crops in
volcanic ash. Usually clad in
flannel and jeans; when the timing was right, he wore
irrigation boots.
Answered everything with pie.
Slept with his reading glasses on.
I
shaved my head the summer before he died, and he said I looked
kinda cute - that was as close as anyone in my family came to paying
a compliment on my looks.
My father wasn't talking to me at all at the time.
They
sold the farm shortly before I shaved my head.
They moved to the suburbs. It's a common tale.
Farm auctions rip me in half.