On the Sixth Day of Christmas: Six Frozen Feet

My great grandfather stayed with us for a few months when I was in third grade. Grandpa, who had recently been widowed, was a retired fisherman whose small home was situated beside a river in Syracuse, NY. He was a wee, little man size-wise with an enormous, well-rounded sense of humor, laughing loudly each time he called my great grandmother (when she was alive) an “old windbag” (something my father mimicked when he was a boy and suffered the consequences), but just as loudly when someone (perhaps me) accidentally walked in on him while he was in the bathroom: There weren’t many people in my family who laughed when that happened to them. I’m not sure how old he was when he came to stay with us that year, but I think it’s safe to assume that he was old.

During his visit, Grandpa spent a good deal of time in our basement since that was the only place Mom allowed him to smoke his pipe. The basement was also our unfinished playroom, so I spent a good deal of time down there playing nearby with my stuff and, at times, sharing his pipe with him. I’m pretty sure Mom wasn’t aware I was smoking, but no worries—I didn’t inhale.

Grandpa’s visit extended over Christmas Day, and after our family celebration he and I took a walk in search of pipe tobacco. The day was raw and, typical for little girls my age, I was dressed in a skirt, anklets, Mary Jane patent leather shoes and bare legs. As we walked from one closed store to the next my feet grew cold and numb and Grandpa began breathing faster. We finally found a gas station that was open that carried cigars. Grandpa bought a couple, figuring he could break them open and dump the contents into his pipe. Evidently cigar tobacco seemed better than nothing.

On the long walk home, my feet began to ache, and as I began to cry from the pain, Grandpa began to run with me to get home faster. If I didn’t know how old he was at the time, I’m sure I didn’t realize what a bad idea it was to make an old man run. When we finally got home I sat down inside the door, wailing, and took off my shoes. Grandpa, bent double, remained doorway pounding on his chest. The next minutes were hysterical as Mom and Dad began yelling questions in an effort to assess whether or not he was having a heart attack. Oblivious to the emergency, I continued to hold my feet, wondering why no one was helping me.

Thankfully Grandpa’s distress passed and no ambulance had to be called. Eventually the feeling returned to my feet and everyone went back to what they were doing before everything went nuts. With everthing right with the world, Grandpa and I retired to the basement for a smoke.

Great Grandpa and Me (not yet a smoker)