This past weekend my dad, my brother and his wife, my cousins Jason and Ness and their respective spouses, and I spent the afternoon at winery. My grandfather used to spend quite a bit of time at this particular winery- The Quarry Hill Winery and Orchard when it was just an Orchard. In addition to going there to buy fruit my grandfather would walk the orchard after it rained and search for Native American Arrowheads. I never went with him, but I can imagine him walking up and down the rows.
As we raised our glasses to toast him the stories started to flow. My dad told us stories of spending summers on the boat. He told us that many times as a kid he would go to sleep at the Beaver Park Yacht Club in Lorain and wake up in Put in Bay. He could only imagine that probably somebody who was several cocktails in would say- "Let's go to the islands" and they would race over. Dad loved summers on the lake. He was pretty much left to his own while his parents partied the summer away.
My Grandpa always had a very special way of saying things. For instance, when we weren't moving fast enough for him he would yell- Do you want a size 10-1/2 boot up your ass. Sure, he could have just said get moving, but then how would I remember his shoe size. He was not a fan of facial hair. Instead of saying you need a shave, he would say why cultivate on your face what grows naturally on your asshole. We never had to worry about knowing how he really felt that is for sure.
Whenever we start on the Grandpa stories inevitably the poem comes up. It starts "There was a little bird, no bigger than a turd..." Grandpa would say that and never continue. He would promise that one day he would finish it, but not until we were older. He never told me how the poem ended. I believe he eventually told Jason, but Jason was holding on to the secret. Well thank goodness somebody invented the internet because otherwise we would never know.
There was a little bird,
No bigger than a turd
Sitting on a telephone pole.
He ruffled out his little neck, and he shat about a peck
As he puckered up his little asshole. Asshole, asshole, asshole, asshole,
As he puckered up his little asshole.
Grandpa sure did use the word asshole a lot. Grandma did too, but when Grandma said it she was talking about a person. Grandpa was actually talking about anatomy. (see we got science lessons too)
The best story of the day was when I asked my dad if my Grandpa had a tattoo. I couldn't remember if he had one or not. In my mind it was an Anchor, but i just wasn't sure. My dad laughed. He said don't you remember when Grandpa would ask if you wanted to see his tattoo? If you said yes he would lift his shirt exposing his un-tattooed torso and point to his belly button. He would say, I used to have a Hula Dancer but now she is faded and all that is left is her asshole. I can never look at a Hula tattoo the same again.
