Beer with My Grandfather

Empty Natural Light cans and GPC cigarette stubs were permanently on my grandparent’s back porch, cheap brands for a minor cattle owner who lived off his garden and social security.

After a day of welding, fixing the tractor, moving the cattle from one field to another, repairing the cattle guard and a little fishing, my grandfather would come home strip down to his white undershirt and Dickie’s. He ate dinner late the plate sitting in the microwave waiting for him. I didn’t spend much time with him on the farm. I do not have a green thumb and ranching was never my thing. He respected that. While he sent the other grandchildren to work, he let me fish.

Going to the farm so little, most of the time, I was at his home before he arrived from the fields. My grandmother and other family members already playing games, in bed, or watching TV before his day was done.

Finished with the meal, he would retire to the back porch for a beer and a cigarette. I would always follow. Even with my heart problem, I would sneak a cigarette out of his pack and open a can of beer. Our conversations were mostly stories by him, advice given not outright or in fables, but in memories. The war, growing up and early days as a mechanic were his favorite subjects. He intertwined questions about my life with his narrative. Class, friends, and thoughts I explained to him. He listened and then would launch another verbal novel. His stories had the power to make me forget my worries, hunger for knowledge about his life, and feel the love he had for me.

October will be the second anniversary of when the man who taught me tic-tac-toe died. My grandmother’s backyard is without cigarette butts and Natural Light is absent from the fridge. As different as he and I were, we always had our time on the back porch.