Puppy

Puppy is not a dog, but what I called my grandfather who died in 1946. I’m not sure when he was born, somewhere in the 1880s I guess. What a span from his life to mine. Today would have been his xxx birthday.

Puppy was a grump with few social skills. He once looked at a new baby and said, “It looks like a God-Damn (nasty term for a minority). The mother, I was told, wasn't pleased. On the other hand, with me he was as much of a marshmallow as his snow white hair. He was willing to spend hours being Freddie Bobbsey to my Flossie in whatever imaginary situation I was willing to dream up.

  

His reverence for books included opening every new one page by page and running his finger down the middle. Once when he hurt my feelings, I took one of his books and tore a page out of the middle, flushing the tiny pieces down the toilet. He never found out.

He was also a brilliant engineer. When taking the qualifying exam he was told he failed. He didn’t see how. He asked to see his test. He had a 100% right answer. I did not inherit his mathematical DNA. He did the engineering on the restructuring of the Massachusetts State House dome, a point of pride when I can look it.

My grandmother was the love of his life. Each spring he picked one lady slipper from the woods behind their house for her. 

 

His joy was being home and caring for his garden. No asparagus or stalk of corn would dare be anything but in perfect formation. I never ate a store-bought vegetable until after he died.

I wish I had known him for longer.

Happy birthday puppy.