My Grandpa died when I was in high school, but my favorite memory of him happened when I was about 8 or 9. My grandparents had come to our house for my brother’s birthday party, and I wanted to go back with them to their house to stay the night. I asked Grandpa if I could bring my bicycle so we could ride to the creek (which he pronounced “crick”) near their house. He, as usual, obliged. He went to pick up my bicycle and put it in the trunk of his Lincoln Town Car when his pants fell right down around his ankles. My entire family was standing in our driveway rolling on the floor laughing as he finished loading my bicycle in his underwear. He was, of course, a good sport about it.
