"Granddad," I yelled lunging into his arms.
"How are you?" He smothered me with a hug. His jacket's smoky smell reminded me of California. When I was little, he would whip me into the air and spin me around. Until a couple of years ago he would give me parachute rides; our personal ritual - He would pick me up and raise me above his shoulders and lower me twice before throwing me into the air and catching me. Now I was content with bear hugs.
"Granddad?" a flight attendant asked as she passed.
"Didn't believe me?" he laughed.
"I would have never guessed. Nice meeting you Stan; enjoy your stay."
"I will. Thank you. Enjoy your holiday," he smiled.
"Did you get her number?" I asked. He stood with his arm around me as we watched her sashay up the ramp.
"That's for me to know and you to find out. I hear your not doing to bad yourself."
"Huh?"
"Don't be coy. What about that neighbor of yours."
"Oh, Shannie. We're just friends."
"They're the best kind. Take care of them my boy, take care of them." He flung his carryon over his shoulder. "Where's the son-in-law?" I pointed to the top of the ramp. "Hey Son-in-law, you going to welcome an old man to this Pigsty or are you going to stand there with a thumb up your ass?"
I couldn't wait to show him off.
Grandfather's presence even effected dad. The car was alive with conversation. My father hadn't laughed this much since we moved to Pennsylvania.
"Where's a good florist?" Grandfather asked before we reached Beyford. "I have to get that daughter of mine some roses or I'll never hear the end of it."
We stopped at JD's tavern for some "spirits" and a watered down coke. Next we visited the flower shop where Grandfather bought a dozen roses for my mother. He also bought a long stem rose, had it wrapped and presented it to the lady who sold it to him. She blushed; he smiled.
The sun briefly broke through the clouds as we turned into our driveway. Grandfather looked at the Ortolan's house and then after a long moment glanced into the cemetery taking in the tombstones and obelisks. "Punk is this what had you scared?"
"Yeah. Sort of."
"I don't blame you. It's spooky."
"It's nothing really."
"If you say."