It's days like this that make a girl wish she still kept an online journal to force the mundane everyday details of her personal life down everyone's throats. There are some things you want to write about that don't really fit into a Twitter post or a Myspace bulletin. You guys must think I'm such a ball of tragedy, I only have eight pages of journal entries and three are wracked with memorial awfulness of increasing degrees. I guess I just don't feel as desperate a need to write when things are going well.
In short, my grandfather died yesterday. For any old school friends here, you may remember him from my Jones Soda thread.

He would have been 70, this October. As a child he survived drinking a pint of turpentine, in the middle of a rural farm with no medical assistance save a strawberry soda for comfort; in the 1960s he survived being beaten in a drunken brawl with carnival workers in Podunk New Mexico, despite flat-lining at the hospital before rising up like a surly broken-armed Lazarus to drive his frightened and weary young family home. These are the stories we tell at every family gathering, that we would dare each other to go one dinner without mentioning, but the stories fell silent in January when he was diagnosed with cancer. 55 years of fidelity to Marlboro are what finally brought him down.
(My profile picture is suddenly a lot less savory.)
My mom and I lived with my grandparents for the first few years of my life, while my dad was stationed in barracks, before we got family military housing. Sometimes I think of my grandpa as more of a second father than as a grandfather, despite having a totally awesome father already. Is that selfish and self-absorbed? Probably. I'm the oldest grandchild by six years though, so I got them all to myself for a little while. I'm pretty lucky.
Six months ago he was helping my dad and boyfriend lift heavy furniture, helping us move in to our new apartment. Four months ago he was...
In short, my grandfather died yesterday. For any old school friends here, you may remember him from my Jones Soda thread.

He would have been 70, this October. As a child he survived drinking a pint of turpentine, in the middle of a rural farm with no medical assistance save a strawberry soda for comfort; in the 1960s he survived being beaten in a drunken brawl with carnival workers in Podunk New Mexico, despite flat-lining at the hospital before rising up like a surly broken-armed Lazarus to drive his frightened and weary young family home. These are the stories we tell at every family gathering, that we would dare each other to go one dinner without mentioning, but the stories fell silent in January when he was diagnosed with cancer. 55 years of fidelity to Marlboro are what finally brought him down.
(My profile picture is suddenly a lot less savory.)
My mom and I lived with my grandparents for the first few years of my life, while my dad was stationed in barracks, before we got family military housing. Sometimes I think of my grandpa as more of a second father than as a grandfather, despite having a totally awesome father already. Is that selfish and self-absorbed? Probably. I'm the oldest grandchild by six years though, so I got them all to myself for a little while. I'm pretty lucky.
Six months ago he was helping my dad and boyfriend lift heavy furniture, helping us move in to our new apartment. Four months ago he was...
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mrjune1979