BONUS!!!
Beer with Grandpa
We stood like soldiers there in
the chill of November’s morning,
guarding our feast with loaded cans
aiming to kill the boredom. I was still
shaking off the clouds of late night
rompings; you were just getting started.
But the Bud Lights went down like
the bottled water that Grandma said we
should’ve had, their nipping cans biting
at our fingers. I watched you pull out
the work gloves from both sides of your
flannel jacket, and I slid the camouflaged
cozy from my torn jeans’ back pocket.
We both grinned with our preparedness.
Around us was your home, my playground;
twelve acres of woods and rolling hills, all
grey with the coming winter. In back, the
raspberry patch we nibble in mid-summer’s
heat. Where you had once laughed when I
unfolded the knife from my left hip pocket
and picked at the seeds in my teeth.
Down the hill stood the chicken coop we
built. And when the wind blew South, we
were reminded of its place. But there
between us, the deep fryer was warm, fifty
feet from your stained brown wrap around
porch. The peanut oil bubbling, smoking,
and blending with our breath; It smelled of
fall, family and giving.
We talked of the days we both could
remember; all our cars and trucks that you
fixed, the chickens we plucked from the
pines at night, the front porch coons you
shot and the one that you missed (but
stubbornly, you still say that I fouled up
those sights of that old twenty-two, which
now sits on the top notch of my built-it-
myself gun rack).
Later, as we stood around a full table of
bread, and I called on you and you called on
me to give our grace. I bowed my head and
listened as you thanked Him for our food,
family and freedom, while I silently gave
thanks for you and this morning’s company.