My grandfather’s birthday was December 17.  He died in 1969, when he was 71 and I was 17.   He loved to fish and read Mickey Spillane novels.  He tolerated the antics of his three sisters and adored his son, daughter-in-law and lucky grandchildren.

Even though I supposedly take after the most antic-filled sister of them all, he still spoiled me rotten.  I sneaked him strawberry shakes from the local Dairy Land (where I worked in high school).  He just about had a stroke when he saw me in my first bikini and called my mother to voice his displeasure.  I gave him a kiss and went to the beach.  We spent a lot of time together, because my grandparents’ house was in walking distance of the high school and my job.  If I stayed after school for clubs or meetings or work (okay, and detention, which I had *once*) I’d visit Grandpa, share a snack and wait for my father to pick me up on his way home from work.

He collected clocks, but when I spent the night he’d turn them all off because the noise bothered me (delicate little flower that I was).  I still cringe when I think about what he must have gone through the next day as he reset them all.

December 17 is also the birthday of the newest soon-to-be member of our family, our future son-in-law Mike.  Happy Birthday, Mike!  I hope it’s a great day!