To
Grandpa took me and my sister to the Desert Museum once, one of many trips we'd take. I don't remember looking at any of the exhibits, or dragging him left and right to see all of the wonders, although I know he let us. I remember him telling me to hide in the cave and wait for my sister to walk through, that it was the perfect chance to scare her. It was. I remember him laughing at me when I was following my nose to corndogs. He let me pretend it was my nose that led us up towards the Cafe, and not the obvious signs on the path that pointed the way. He was that kind of Grandpa.
He taught us to lick the last dinner roll to claim it as ours. He found it entertaining that he could trick his grandkids into believing he'd used an eraser to make himself balding; maybe he knew that someday soon, we'd come back and wish for watermelons on his bald head. And we often did.
He wasn't without fault. I never saw him turn on the stove or touch a frying pan. Even if he did attempt to make a meal, I'm not sure it'd be close to edible.
He expected a lot, but looking back, I know he never expected anything beyond what we could handle. He was that kind of Grandpa.
I will remember him always. I will miss him always. If I get to heaven, I hope he doesn't have too much hair; I'm looking forward to the next time that I can wish for a watermelon.