A Portrait of My Grandfather

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My earliest memory of Grampa was when I was about three years old. We were playing ball in his back yard with my older cousin Randy. Randy was five, and was pitching to me. I could hardly lift the bat, so Grampa was crouched down behind me, helping me hold it. Normally I didn’t like playing sports with Randy because he could do everything better than me. But I felt fine that time, because Grampa was there.

Randy threw the ball and I didn’t swing, which made him mad. “You’re supposed to hit the ball, Greg,” he yelled at me.

Since I was with Grampa, I felt safe in taunting him. “No,” I said.

“All right, I’m telling,” Randy announced, and stormed into the house.

I got a little worried when he slammed the door behind him, but then I looked back at Grampa. He smiled his slow, gentle, crinkle-eyed smile. “Now, see what you’ve done?” he said jokingly. “You’ve gotten us both in trouble.”

I smiled, and snuggled back in his arms. I wasn’t afraid with Grampa around.

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