Tonight I’ll indulge my grumpy old man impulse…

As I travel, or go out to public places, I am often reminded of my maternal grandfather.  He was a grand and dignified man.  He served in the Navy through both world wars, raised five children on nothing more than the salary of a postal carrier in tiny Stratton, Nebraska, and was kind, generous and strong.  He told long, funny stories, not cheap jokes.  He was gentle with children and animals.

But I think of him these days because of the way he dressed.  Though money was tight, he lived his life without air conditioning, and he spent much of his life outside (he taught me to fish and to catch frogs) he clothed himself like a grown man: white button-down shirt, pressed khaki pants, bow tie, and, when outside, a modest fedora.  Even on casual outings on summer days, he dressed like this, like a man who respected himself.  Below are two photos of him with my brothers and I, on a June afternoon in Texas, in the yard of the house where I grew up.  That was my Popo, handsome and mature.

So when I see grown men dressed in baggy gym shorts, tank tops and flip-flops, in airports and grocery stores, I think of Popo.  They are juveniles with five-o’clock shadows, tacky and sloppy. They cannot hold a candle to my grandfather.  He was a man.  I miss him.  I am glad there is some of him in me.