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.