Some time ago, Grandpa took a dive and was found on the floor of his apartment. After a stint in the hospital, he moved to a swanky rehab joint where he instantly charmed the staff. That is his way. People love him up! On the other hand, Mom and Tom finally read the tea leaves and emptied Grandpa’s apartment last month. At first, this all seemed scary. Now, we’ve changed our minds. Hooray! Grandpa’s surrounded by people who dote on him madly! Hooray! It’s also frustrating, because I’m three hundred miles away and for some odd reason, he cannot hear the sound of my voice on the phone.
No, really. He hears Tom just fine. Grandpa makes jokes with Daria. He ignores Mom when she argues with him but he overhears plenty. Anyway, he can’t hear me, and when I call he becomes agitated about not understanding who’s on the phone. That is a great feeling I have to say I enjoy like dental surgery. So the other day, I mailed out a bunch of postcards someone more sonorous will read out loud. So far, they all say the same thing:
I love you!
Hopefully this amuses him. Another pile will go out next week, corresponding with my need to clean up my cubicle, where I possess an impressive collection of postcards from places I’ve never been, like Mr. DBK’s current locale, though I’m not very possessive. Thank you, Minneapolis. Say hi to my grandpa!