Grandpa Gene

Grandfather Gene is pushing 90.

He shot the big guns on the USS Missouri. My father has a picture on the mantel of teenage Gene next to the big ship. His eyes have stayed the same fresh blue, yet they seem to be saying, "I want to walk fast." He told me once when I was younger that the thing he misses the most is being able to walk out into the woods, sit in his tree stand, and wait for a buck to come through the brush with his gun perched on his lap.

Now, every day, up at the crack of dawn, he smokes a pack, heads to the D&D where he drinks well into the afternoon, takes a nap, smokes another pack, eats whatever my mother has dropped off--usually chocolate cake, smores bars, or pumpkin bars. (Dessert is a meal to my grandfather.) Then he smokes some more.

Doctors in Madison at the Vetern Hospital tell him to never quit smoking. It will be a shock to his system. . . . My grandfather has to smoke, so he doesn't die.