My Grandfather
My grandfather was always larger than life. His massive pot belly preceded the rest of him by a few seconds wherever he went, but I'm not talking about that. His booming voice could be heard, as he called for his chickens, far and wide across the property we shared when I was growing up, but I don't mean that either. He wasn't just my mother's father, my neighbor, and the slightly crazy guy who talked to chickens on his little farm. He was the farm. Even as a small child, he seemed ancient, with a grey buzz-cut, weathered skin, and rough, gorilla-sized hands. Those hands were something. His balled-up fist was the size of a watermelon, and it was easy to imagine that if you angered him, those hands could twist off any appendage that he wished. Even as an old man, he looked like he was a just a few years removed from bench-pressing a tank. He also moved slowly, sometimes with a limp, and could be heard sighing anytime he stood up from the couch where he took his daily n...