If he were still alive and well, we would have taken him to breakfast at Burkempers, a place I haven't been since I was eight, at which age it felt like our food took an hour and a half to reach the table and the bathroom was dark and scary. I can remember Grandpa charming all the waitresses, who called him "Mr. Mudd" and treated him like their favorite uncle. Mom would have presented him with a bag of fun-size Snicker's, which he would have torn into with panache, leaving a handful of wrappers in his empty coffee cup.
After a stop at the bowling alley next door, the rest of the day would have been spent visiting friends and relatives and taking many smoke/Snicker breaks before the night's festivities. I'm not sure what we would have done to celebrate, but I know G-pa would have eaten a plateful of cookies and cake 'n' ice cream before opening presents--another jacket just like the old one he's got on, a box of Crunch 'n' Munch, fresh white socks with "MUDD" already printed on the toe...
I still remember the way he smelled. I'd try to describe it, but that seems somewhat cliché. But I can smell him still, even after he's been dead ten years. And with that smell comes the feel of his rough cheek against my lips and his rounded shoulders inside my embrace, his soft, black hair, sticking up a little in the back because he's just taken his hat off after being outside for a cig...
I'm suddenly remembering things I haven't thought about in years, and I realize just how much I miss my grandpa. I wish I could have known him before his mind went and I was put in charge of writing down his story for him to read later and remind him of his name. It's likely I'd assumed then that if he just read what I'd written in his diary--mundane anecdotes about his neighbors at the nursing home or a statement about his favorite meal--he'd remember on his own. It was the same case with the photo album of Andy and I posing at different spots in the first nursing home Grandpa lived at, collected in an album with strips of paper reading things like, "Rebecca walking down the hall from the dining room" or "Andy standing in front of your apartment," stuck in the sleeve along with the picture. Anyway.
My grandpa Mudd was somewhat of a rockstar. No, seriously! I can't describe it; it's just the truth. In the days between his death and funeral many stories were shared from his life, and he has since been immortalized in my memory.
If he were here today, I'd be sure to sneak him a chocolate chip cookie topped with a spoonful of peanut butter and a pipe for smoking, as long as he promised to give me a few puffs.
Maybe four years before my time, this was most likely taken by my mother.
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