This is me and my Grandpa Jenkins. I was about 6 months old here, and within a couple years he would be gone.
I don’t know a lot about my Grandpa. I know he was adopted and that he was on his way to the South Pacific when World War II ended and he never saw combat. He dated a lady named Dorothy after my Grandma died and went by his middle name and put different names than what he and my Grandma agreed upon on both my Mom and my Aunt’s birth certificates – without consulting my Grandma. My Mom, Sue, was supposed to be Jennifer. My Aunt Judi, Deborah.
He survived this, somehow.
What I know about him is a small collection of secondhand stories. I don’t know what he sounded like or what made him laugh or even if he was tall.
My Mom was born in Chicago and Grandpa took her to Cubs games when she was growing up. He remained a Cubs fan for the rest of his life, even after he moved to a different city. I’ve never had an interest in baseball, but if you were to ask me what my favorite team is I would tell you it is the Cubs for no other reason than it’s my Grandpa’s team. My Mom is the same way.
When I saw last month that the Cubs were coming to Houston to play the Astros I knew we had to go.
Our seats were cheap, but the view was good.
We ate some hot dogs.
Wore some free hats.
Did a little knitting.
Watched the game.
And I cheered for the Cubs. For my Grandpa.