I remember when my grandmother would sit at the dining room table and play cards and smoke her ciggy's. She did crossword/wordsearch and puzzles. My God she must have been bored. My Grandfather drunk and singing his songs that he made up. I loved his songs. His dip can always sat on the right end of the couch in the floor, with newspapers underneath. I used to think it was pointless to try and protect that carpet. It was thin, worn, and smelled of fried bacon and booze. I feel bad for my grandmother but I can't say that she ever made me smile. Why? She didn't smile. I think I might have been intimidated by her seriousness. I feel sorry for her for not thinking she deserved better. Better than my grandfather. Everyone in town knew him for his drunkness, walking, and singing.

One night when I was very small I stayed the night over there and woke up to get ready for a day of fried foods and old westerns. Maybe today grandma would smile.

I couldn't find my clothes. My clothes were gone. My Grandfather had taken them into town and traded them for moonshine. I didn't mind. It was okay. He made up a song about it while my grandmother cursed at him. Pointing her finger. He smiled and didn't seem to hear her. I smiled back. A song about me...a song about my clothes. It was funny.

I loved my grandfather. He was funny, nice, and happy. That is how I like to remember him, although there is always that story .....the storyof when he raped my sister.