I knew I wouldn't have time to write my blog post on Thursday, so I did the incredibly responsible thing and wrote it on Wednesday night.
Unfortunately, a bad thing happens when I start writing it early. I sit here thinking I can really go into some epic story telling because - Look at all the time I have!
If I would write a little each night, I'm pretty sure the writing would be much better. What I wrote last Wednesday ended up being some of my favorite stuff I've ever written. It quickly became too big for this blog so it sits unfinished. And wrong. So very wrong.
I think I will put it on here soon, though.
Here's what I am thinking now: I'll write this huge pile of words until it's finished. Then I'll publish it in parts, with a "To be continued ..." at the end of each one. This way, I will see it to completion.
I don't have anything specific tonight I want to talk about so I will put the first paragraph of what I planned for last week here:
Ray had something wrong with his eyes. One of them was weak or something. It always looked like he was looking to your right if he was talking to you. His left eye would drift outward as his other eye would be fixed squarely at you. Whenever he talked to me, I'd keep checking my back because I kept thinking something had caught his attention behind me.
So I'm pretty sure you're all excited about that post whenever I get around to writing it.
But don't worry about that. I'm just bursting with stuff to talk about. I know because so many times this week, I would think something and then I'd think, "I should blog about that."
So I'm pretty sure that any minute, I'll think of something.
Thoughts on Grandpa Pork
Like most people, I had 2 grandpas when I was a kid. Like most people in their fifties, all of my grandpas are dead now.
Grandpa Pork was the grandpa I haven't talked about recently. Grandpa Pork never told me mathematical mysteries. Grandpa Pork never took me to see a fireworks show.
Also, nobody ever called him Grandpa Pork. I just made that up right now because he was my "other white grandpa."
I was always scared of Grandpa Pork. He had an amazing mane of thick, white hair. He was very skinny and my earliest memory of him put him at about age 200.
|Young Cube and Papa Pork, 1966|
Why was I scared of him? I'm glad you asked. To anybody that knew him, he was a sweet old man. But when I look at that face, I see a striking resemblance to my own. That's a face that scares children.
Plus there was the toilet paper incident.
Grandma Pork was truly the bestest grandma in the whole wide world. We loved her so much. She always had our backs.
So one time I was over at Grandma's and I had to go potty. I was probably not yet 3. I maybe possibly used a few sheets too many of the toilet paper. I don't remember.
What I remember was a rampaging Grandpa pork, yelling at me for using "all the toilet paper on God's green earth."
I darted from the bathroom as Grandpa Pork threw a brown dress shoe at me. The shoe hit the wall above my head, but I'm sure he meant to miss. Probably.
I ran to grandma's leg for cover where I was safe until grandma saw how much toilet paper I had put into the toilet.
For most of my life before he died, Grandpa was essentially bedridden. Whenever I watched Willy Wonka, I'd think grandpa could get out of bed if he had enough incentive.
I will talk about this in detail some time, but going over to grandma's house was always a nice lesson about life. I already mentioned how grandma was the best grandma ever. This was one adult who treated all children with respect. She truly marveled at the way our minds worked. She loved to play word games or scrabble with us.
I think grandma's place was always my favorite place to go, but whenever we went over there, she made us "visit" grandpa.
He was lying in a back room. I'd go in and sit in the chair next to his bed. He was breathing heavy. He'd turn his head like it would be his last action and rasp, "Hi Freddie."
"Um. Pretty good."
At that, he'd turn his head back and close his eyes, letting me know the torture was over. I'd watch his frail panting for a minute and leave the room.
I'd get back to grandma who would tell me how much those visits meant to him.
"Yeah right." I didn't believe that grandpa learning school was going "Pretty good" meant much to him.
I found out much later (just before he died) that he had remembered just about everything I'd ever said to him. It wasn't a lot, but a few months before he died, he told me he loved me very much and that I could use as much toilet paper as I wanted.
Grandpa ate canned peas every single day.
[ this post intentionally finished blank ]