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Grumpy Grampy Paul Ryan
He lives in a small, crumbling house. The living room is slanted to one side, as is the entire foundation of the house. Place a ball on the floor and it will slowly roll toward the back-left corner of the room. The garage is worse. It's merely the skeleton of a garage made out of concrete bricks. Plain, gray, ugly. In front hangs a large handmade wooden sign that says "RYAN", and inside is a dozen or so large plants growing up from the ground. There's no room for cars anymore. It has simply become my grandfather's indoor forest, which is quite amusing. My parents have often said that when my grandfather goes, so will these structures. The house and garage will be torn down and the land sold as is, with my grandfather's items, which haven't changed much over the years, going with it. His worn old recliner, the aging but comfortable couch he uses as a bed (the only air conditioner is in the same room, so he moves out of the bedroom in the summertime), and the small radio in the kitchen closet that plays classical music all day long will go with him. He's had chances to fix up his house, but never felt the need to. He could have moved into a nice condo or a retirement home, but he's stubborn, stuck in his ways, and damn proud of it. When he watches his Red Sox games, opens letters from his grandkids, or reads the daily newspaper with his trusty old magnifying glass, he wants to do it in the place he's used to calling home. I imagine my dad will be the same way, as will my brother and I. We're all stubborn, stuck in our ways, and damn proud of it. Personally, anyone taking me to a nursing home when I'm old better plan on being armed, because otherwise I will stab them in the eye with a spork, or the equivalent of a spork in the future. Listening to old stories this weekend about my grandfather was fun. My grandfather used to work and live near a Howard Johnson Restaurant. Three girls lived in the same building, and he dated all three of them one after the other, marrying the last one. He was a player in a time when people like to think there wasn't such a thing. Nobody ever talks about the Don Juans who got more than their fair share of ladies in the 1930s and 1940s because we'd rather see the era as it is on black and white TV. But talk about my grandpa and that goody two shoes image will be delightfully shattered. When that happens, most people just laugh, because it makes them feel good knowing life back then wasn't quite so different. Perhaps my favorite story about him was the time my grandfather saw another guy making eyes at the lady who would soon be his wife. He took the man and smashed his head into an ice cream case. I guess we know where the crude and inappropriate behavior comes from in my family. My grandpa had it, both in his actions and his words, and he especially passed the crude words on to my father, who regularly makes jokes about bodily functions. My dad passed those traits on to me, leading me to create this website. I consider that a good thing, but others disagree. If you disagree, you can kiss my ass. If you dislike my attitude, you can take it up with my grandfather. I've typed close to 600 words and am still nowhere near to describing my grandfather, so perhaps I should just end this column with some quotes from him. All these things were said by him in the span of a 30-minute conversation this weekend:
"He's probably a spoiled brat. He needs a good smack on the ass is what he needs." (Regarding one of my cousins) "Ontario Smith? With a name like that, he must be white." (Regarding a running back for the Minnesota Vikings. Click his name for his picture) "Her daughter's name is Mercedes. The next one they'll name Buick, then Ford, then Volvo. I mean, Jesus Christ, but whaddya gonna do?" (Regarding one of his relatives) "The dog jumps on everybody. But not me, because I'll hit him." (Regarding my uncle's dog, who my grandfather has to sometimes threaten with a karate chop to keep away) "She's small, but she has big eyes and big tits." (Regarding the wife of a relative . . . who will remain nameless)
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My grandfather is over 80 years old, but he still talks like me. Well, he talks like all the men in my family, actually, who all talk like me. "Grumpy Grampy's" hearing may not be so good, his sight may be weak, and his voice may be slow and raspy, but he can still zip a one-liner with the best of them. My family visited him this weekend in Medway, MA.
