Weird, Really Weird

As a little boy, and even much later in life, my grandparents were the oldest people I knew. My mother’s father being the oldest of the four. To this day, I think of him often and I wrote about him in the post entitled “Never Leave the Farm.”

Grandpa died the year Judy and I were married. I did not spend much time with him when I was a boy and all too soon it was too late to get to know him better. To me, he was always an old man. His working days had long since come and gone. I don’t know much about what he did when he did work or what he did when he wasn’t working.

Never gave much thought to his age – cannot recall singing “Happy Birthday” or watching him blow out the candles. I suspect that if I dig a little deeper, there has got to be such a memory, hidden within a deep, dark crevasse somewhere. Probably when I was quite young and far more interested in cake and ice cream than quizzing grandpa about his latest adventures.

One memory I do recall, from time to time showcases grandpa’s ornery side. When my age was probably still a single digit, he loved to grab one of my ears and twist on it like he was removing a ketchup bottle lid, while gritting his teeth. As I would feel about, checking to see if my ear was still attached, he would grin, from ear to ear and even chuckle out loud. That was kind of weird, but that wasn’t the really weird part.

Grandpa sired 14 children, but then again he had the easy part. Cannot imagine grandpa changed very many diapers or feed too many fussy babies. It was grandma who did all the real work and she outlived him by 22 years. Not weird either. But it was pretty amazing. Grandma only missed blowing out one hundred candles by a couple years.

Grandpa died in 1969, but that wasn’t the weird part. He was born in 1894, which wasn’t particularly that weird either. That is unless there were facts never entered into evidence. (Sorry, clearly I have watched too many crime dramas on television.) Judy claims that there was a horse thief in her ancestry. Who knows what crimes grandpa might have committed in his younger days. Entered into evidence or not.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see anyone looking back that resembles the mental image I have of my grandpa in his final years. While it has never been suggested that I was the milkman’s baby, I likewise cannot recall anyone ever suggesting that I had grandpa’s eyes, or his chin, or any other distinguishing characteristics. (I do have a couple of his non-physical attributes which might be the subject of a future post.)

Okay, now, for the weird part. A few months back, I happened upon a tee shirt online – one that I simply had to have. It was simply too funny and given a series of recent events (which might likewise get explained in a future post) ownership was a must. Emblazoned across the front of the shirt, in large, multicolored block letters were the words: “IT’S WEIRD BEING THE SAME AGE AS OLD PEOPLE.” Weird indeed.

So, have you done the math yet? Grandpa was seventy-four years old when he died. Later this year, I too will be seventy-four years old. Weird, really weird. Ok, maybe, weird isn’t the right word – maybe it’s more like spooky. Then again, the shirt did not proclaim that something was spooky; it stated (in those big, block letters) that something was weird.

So, between now and my seventy-fourth birthday, I’ll probably think about grandpa a little more often than usual. Not so weird. I might even touch the side of my head from time to time, just to make sure my ear is exactly where it’s supposed to be. Possibly weird – depending upon where this groping about takes place. And I will have a piece of cake with ice cream in celebration of our seventy-fourth birthdays. Not weird at all.