She’s stellar, this granddaughter.
Both my parents lost their mothers young. My mom’s mom passed when she was four; my dad’s mom passed when he was a 21-year-old newlywed. Both grandfathers remarried, but after 34 years it’s clear that the most grandparent I’ve ever had is my dad’s dad. Lushly coiffed at 85, prickly but funny, deeply literate but verbally brief and matter of fact, brusque but devoted, that would be Grandpa Tom.
He’s only ever asked me for one thing. On Saturday. After a lifetime of his evasive and economical brand of affection, I was happy and focused in my desire to deliver the goods he had asked me for three times: a photograph of me, my husband and kids with Bill Clinton.
“Don’t forget that picture, Angie.” Really, the man can go one year without getting personal on you, so his insistence on something so sentimental really struck me. By…
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To be clear, that grey-haired gentleman in the picture is not the grandfather in question. Although he is lushly coiffed, prickly, funny, deeply literate, and devoted, he is not verbally brief, nor brusque, and only sometimes is he matter of fact. He is also named Bill, not Tom.