My Grandpa's memorial BBQ was just perfect. Lots of people showed up...old neighbors, friends from the Horse Race track, co-workers from his days at Martin-Marietta, lots of family and close, good friends. It was a mild and warm evening, and I spent it sitting at a picnic table with my friends, enjoying Grandpa's favorite, brownies, watching circles of friends laugh and smile. It was low-key, just friends and talk, Budweiser and sandwiches. The only thing missing was him.

In all the sadness this week held, I learned a lot about Grandpa Bob, his hard life in the hills of Montana, a farm boy who's family was conned by the government into trading fertile land for desolate space on the plains, unfit for anything but weeds. I sifted through dozens of photos of young and old grandpa with his prize horses in the Winner's Circle at the races. So many of the horses he raised and trained, Von Drake, Red Amber, William Banks, and Queen of the Stars won first place at the track. And each time, my Grandpa and his mother, Ruth Alicia, would stand with their horse for the prize photo.

I learned that he met my Grandma BJ, a high-society South African-raised Nebraska girl at the track too...she was then a single mother of 4 kids, struggling as the secretary to an accountant (even though she possessed the skills of an accountant herself) who rarely would be seen at the tracks. But he met her once, and a few weeks later, asked a friend for her number. They were together for almost 40 years after that meeting.

Looking at the photos on my Grandpa at the track, dressed in traditional the cowboy attire of a snap-front shirt, dirty slacks, a big belt buckle and boots, I saw a very handsome man I had never really seen before. He was simply gorgeous, and I can see why my Grandma agreed to meet him at the track again. I could only imagine them meeting, my Grandma chatting away the whole time, and my Grandpa just listening. After they married, she never pumped gas for her own car again. And he never washed or pressed his own shirts.

He took great care of his horses, his hard-working mother, his wife, and his step-kids (although he just referred to them as his own.) He was a simple, wonderful cowboy, a man I never heard raise his voice, complain, or say a negative thing about anyone. He didn't speak often, instead choosing more to listen, but when he did, it was only a sentence or two, and generally something comical about my Grandma.

I am grateful for the moment alone I shared with him Sunday night in the hospital. He was hooked up to all kinds of awful machines, and I had to wear a protective garment as he was fighting an infection. He looked at me, and couldn't speak, but the doctor took his breathing mask off so he could at least open his mouth. I was with him for maybe 5 minutes, but I told him he couldn't go because I hadn't heard all of his story yet. He nodded, although I don't think he could hear me. I kissed his head and left. He died soon after.

I love you, Grandpa. And I miss you very, very much.

I know, I know. How many blogs can one person have? I started a new blog for my journals from the 90s. Read me!!




They Found Pieces of Jennifer's Body.

So I shot him, square in the chest. And blood got everywhere. All over the textured walls of our 5-bedroom suburban home. And he shot me, square in the chest. No passion, but purely procedural. We were both leaning against the wall, spitting blood all over the empty white-carpeted room. We had to sell this house. There was no furniture in it, so it must have been for sale.

Then the door bell rang. I clutched the hole in my chest, and walked to the front door. It was a friend. I let her in. There was blood everywhere. He, my husband, was still upstairs. I told her we were separating.

Dreams are weird.