I remember only one thing about my paternal grandfather. He visited once in my parents' home when he was in his eighties and pretty far along in his dotage. I'd never been around him that much, so I didn't know what to think of him, anyhow. And I didn't know what was normal for him.
We were sitting in the breakfast nook, and he had a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice at his place at the table. I couldn't believe it when he picked up his juice and poured it on the cereal.Total shock. I'd never seen anyone do anything like that before, and I almost recall my parents taking me aside and telling me just to ignore him.
Ignore, I could handle. Forget, I've not been able to do.
That incident happened more than fifty-five years ago, when I was a very young child. No one has to remind me of it. I remember it more clearly than most of my other childhood memories.
I love being in my sixties. Even though my body is starting to slow down and wear out and I sometimes struggle to remember simple facts and familiar names.
But at least I'm still drinking orange juice out of a glass and pouring milk on my cereal. I hope and pray the time will never come when I do otherwise.
But if it does, I pray I won't notice it. And that I won't startle some poor young boy the way my grandfather startled me.
I hope to be remembered for what I do before I reach that point.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
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