On Tradition

Unlike most people my age, I genuinely enjoy visiting with my grandparents.

My maternal grandfather is funny just because he normally has no idea of what's going on, because he can't hear anything and he'll repeat questions or say something that has nothing to do with anything.

My paternal grandparents are just as entertaining.

My grandmother, who us grandchildren call Gratti (the story there is that my cousin Cara couldn't pronounce "Grandma Marion," and it evolved from there), a woman who was referred to in her high school yearbook as "faultlessly feminine," is a perfect lady. She is always dressed well, and her hair is always neatly pulled back. She takes great care to cook, clean and manage the household. She also spoils her grandchildren.

She also curses like a sailor, especially in traffic.

Simply put, she's the greatest grandmother a kid could hope for.

My paternal grandfather, PaErn (His name is Ernest, figure out the contraction) is equally as awesome. The man knows everything about everything, and is the man to go to if there's a question about any family matter.

For years, he was the master of woodworking, until cataracts and Parkinson's Disease put a halt to that.

Now he hangs out and watches morning talk shows and Jeopardy. And in no way is that sad or depressing. He loves it.

My sister and I visited them earlier this evening with the intent of delivering a birthday card to my grandmother, who turned 81 today.

Nearly an hour later, I looked at the clock and realized how much time I had spent just getting lost in stories. That happens regularly.

It's this type of thing that most people lament not encountering in their lifetime, time with their loved ones.

I'm lucky, in that I've had a lot of time to get to know my grandparents. So I will never have that regret.