Author Description

Though some proper folk in our rural neighborhood believed that Pap's gruff mannerisms, colorful language, and frequent inebriation had set him on the fast track to perdition, through my eyes, Pap was my hero and was just one authenticated miracle away from becoming a saint. When I was young, my grandfather never told me that he loved me. It was the unspoken subtle things he would do that convinced me that he cared. Things like storing the blasting caps on a different cabinet shelf than the sticks of dynamite, or warning me not to swallow my spit after instructing me to blow back through the clogged pesticide sprayer nozzle. Looking back, I'm not so sure he wasn't just trying to protect his dynamite.