~The storyteller extraordinar: my Grandpa

My grandpa is the single best storyteller I have ever met. I could sit on my grandparents canvas couch for endless hours and listen to his stories. He’ll talk about anything from how things used to be, to the way things should be, to the funky birds in Africa—it really doesn’t matter, because, to me, it’s all interesting.

When I was a kid he always had the best games to play. I remember I would crawl into my grandma and his bed on mornings after I had slept over, eager to snuggle between two of my favorite people. He would be watching some morning talk show, and I would lie quietly relishing every moment. As soon as a commercial would hit the screen, I would climb onto his knees, then when I least expected it, he would drop his knees, and I would squeal with sheer delight.

In the evenings he would watch his programs on TV, and when he looked good and snoozing I would waltz over (in my grandma’s floor length princess-worthy nighty,) crotch on the carpet and tie his work boots together. Then, I would sneakily steal his hanky out of his pocket and resume hiding it in the unsought corners of the house.

But the tables spun both ways, as my grandpa had tricks of his own. He would take my beloved Elmo stuffed animal (actually my Elmo that I claimed was spelt Almo) and would strap him to the fan with duck tape, then when I least suspected the kidnapping, he would crank the ceiling fan to full speed and tell me to look up: there barred to the cheap wooden slabs would be my little treasure spinning as violently as a Ritalin desperate kid in the Disneyland Teacups.

Every summer we’d go on a vacation, usually to the ocean, but sometimes to the Black Rock Dessert or some place way in what my grandparents called, the “boonies.” My grandpa would go out during the hot summer days and collect magnificent rocks then come back in the evenings and tell my grandma and I all sorts of stories.

Those were the days.

My grandma is…well, amazing, but I’ll save that for another post.