Blogtober #22 More Than Just Snickers

 Today I was thinking about how the first person to pass away in my life that I knew was my great-grandfather, Johnny Mac. I didn't know him very well, but I always liked visiting him and my great-grandmother, Lydia. My great-grandmother always seemed to have a beer in her hand, whether she was drinking it or not. My great-grandfather seemed to always have a smile on his face, whether he really did or not. Now these were my mother's grandparents on her mother's side. The ones on her father's side died before I was born, though my great-grandmother on my mom's father's side is the one who made me my baby blanket, parts of which I still have. I knew my mom's parents fairly well, though my grandfather on my mom's side didn't talk to me too much, but I loved hearing his stories, whether he was talking to me or others nearby. My dad's father, I only met him twice, and both times he had Snickers in his place and offered me one. Typically, when offered a candy by an adult, I would take one and only one. However, with my grandfather on my father's side, I took a couple. It was my way of getting back at the man who hurt my father, grandmother, and all my aunts on my father's side. What I remember most is how frail he looked how quiet he spoke. In all the stories I heard of him through the years, quiet was not the word, nor was frail, and yet right in front of me was this tiny man, who I knew just about nothing about, never heard a story from his lips uttered to my ear, whether he talked to me or others. The only stories I've ever heard were from those he hurt. My dad could be a tough man, a strong father, but even when I pushed every button I could find with a few I invented, he never laid a hand on me to hurt me. He gave me plenty of hugs and words of affirmation. My grandfather gave me 2 things: my father and Snickers, a candy bar. That was the only sweetness I ever heard him give. I'm not making comments that say that is all he was, but that's all that I know, all that he was to me.  I don't know all the stories from all my grandparents. I would have loved to talk to them more. I would have loved to share with them more, but what I do have I hold close. It's really those things that live on inside of me, inside of my other family members. One day someone else might write a story or a post, that maybe no one else will read about me. I hope there is more to say about me than, "He offered me Snickers a couple of times."