Grandpa Joe stuck a finger in his pipe and re-lit it as I walked up the steps. “Bought an extra for you when you said you were coming tonight. Everything okay?” he asked. “Or is the house just too lonely without the old meathead?” “Meathead” was my grandpa’s favorite nickname for Damon. Back when we were just dating in high school, he couldn’t help himself, and since we got hitched, he relished every chance he got to trot out the old name. “I was going to say ‘No,’” I said, as I sat a duffel bag on the rickety, old woven-iron table. “But, when you said sandwich, my stomach started growling. I guess I haven’t eaten much of anything today. Or the day before.” “Hard couple of days?” He shoved the chair opposite his out with his foot. Grandpa pushed a wax-paper-covered sandwich across the table. As soon as the smell of fresh rye, sauerkraut, Thousand Island dressing, crushed garlic, and horseradish hit my nose, I needed that thing in my mouth. “Want to tell me about it?
