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Ninety-Freaking Five

95.

That is how old Grampie is, as of today.

Can we think about this for a moment?

Ninety-five years.

That is a lot of living. A lot.


I'm going to be celebrating this amazing man with my family this weekend. In case you've forgotten (or don't yet know) why I love my grandpa so dang much, here are a few other things I've written about him:

It is strange and almost impossible for me to imagine him as a young man, gaunt and dirty and living in a trench for weeks on end. Seeing death come to those around him. Sending death to visit others. It hurts my heart. It makes me wish I could do something, sixty-five years later, to fix him; help him; give him back the innocence I don't even realize I carry with me.
-

A few weeks ago, I called Grampie...Our conversation, of course, turned to the war, and ...he made a connection I've never heard from him before.
"You want to know what we saw? Just watch the news. The same things are still happening to the women and children today." The same things.Are happening today.
-
We talked about all sorts of things, including (of course), his sweetheart of 63 years, whom he misses terribly.
"It was love at first sight. She winked at me with both eyes and I knew she'd fallen for me. Of course, being a sophisticated city boy, it took me a bit longer to fall for her." "How much longer?" "About ten seconds."

-

If you feel like celebrating with me, I recommend this cookie recipe, which as become my go-to baking gift for him.
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