One of the traditions of my Grandfather on Mothers side, was to assign each and every grand child a nick name. He would from that point on, call you by your nick name. My Brother was Jeremiah, and in Jeremiah was a bullfrog, and I was Eric the Red. I’m not really sure why he chose that name for me, he must have been at a loss for ideas. Toad’s name, as we called him, stuck just fine, but mine, not so well. My sisters took to calling me Rico, and that has stuck even to this day.
Grandpa, when he was home, would come in the living room carrying a beer, and a bowl. Sitting down in his favorite chair, he would lean over and place the bowl on the floor and pour a little of his beer in it. Then he’d call his dog, a tiny little Pomeranian, and let it slurp up its share of the beer. Nothing like having a tipsy fur ball running around a house full of kids.
If the weather was nice, we would all go out front where they had a huge old tree. It was something like a weeping willow. The tree had white bark, and the branches spread far out from the tree. The leaves, hung on tendrils off the branches, draping toward the ground. The tree was so big all of the grandkids could climb up in it and each have perch all their own. I have many fond memories of climbing in that tree, and listening to Grandpa with his gruff laugh teasing us and the dog.
Quote of the Day:
Too many people miss the silver lining because they’re expecting gold.