A friend of mine has three boys, the youngest of whom, Gregory, had just started school.
I told my nephew in Florida I couldn't believe he was going back to school. I asked what his mother would do all day now that he was in school.
"Cartwheels," he answered.
On a wintry day, my 90-year-old father was in the supermarket trying to pay for his groceries. Bundled up against the cold, his gloved hands were having trouble retrieving and counting the exact change.
The transaction evidently took too long for the man behind him in line, who muttered a curse.
Dad stopped counting, turned around, and warned, “Be quiet or I’ll write a check.”
It was a typical noisy dinner at my parents’s home, and Dad was having trouble following the conversations. He kept jumping in with off-topic comments and asking for things to be repeated.
I finally told him he needed to get a hearing aid.
Looking at me as if I was crazy, he said, “What would I do with a hand grenade?”