I'm standing on my roof, twisting the stove pipe, trying to find the incescent rattle, when Bird pulls in his 1981 classic Buick Riviera pimpmobile. "Do you know what day today is?" he asks, carryng a 12 pack of Bud. "Gramp's birthday." I say automatically. I didn't know until he asked. I climb down off the roof and we get to drinking and talking. Across the road Carlito is rustling the camels, a goat, and his new puppy. We toast our grandfather. He would've been 108.
One of my great disappointments in this world is that my paternal grandfather did not live long enough to see me as an adult. If we had stayed out of jail we would've been a force to be reckoned with, two of a kind, separated by a mere 52 years. Bird and I cover the latest, in and out of the family circle. I've been stressed as of late, what with building inspectors and surveillance cameras out at WSSP and an overall feeling of oncoming alzheimers. Maybe it's just a head cold and good pot, but i seem to be forgetting all kinds of shit. Last night I went to Rock Hill to get honey, lemon and Jack Daniels and drove all the way home without getting the Jack. That's not a good sign. Where are my priorities?
Then mom calls and she tells me that we moved out of our trailer and into our big house on River Road in Montgomery on Gramp's birthday in 1954. Bird was a little over a month old. Trailer trash to homeowners in one shot. I wish Gramp could see us all now. He'd get such a kick out of the camels and all of our trials and tribulations. Happy Birthday old timer. 108 and counting.
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