We started early. He was up before the sun every morning, year-round, waiting for the day to get going. Always in coat and tie and pants with a crease. In the summer he wore his straw hat. On World Series week he always wore his Chicago Cubs cap, even though the Cubs hadn’t gone to the Series since 1945 and hadn’t won one since 1908. On the way to school, Grandpa scoped out every house. “See those three in a row? I built them.” He had big knuckles, like a carpenter. And he acted like he owned all the houses he ever built. He’d grumble if people put on an addition or enclosed a porch. You wouldn’t want to hear what he called aluminum siding. And he wouldn’t put up with litter on the lawn. He turned me loose twice to run a newspaper out of the shrubbery and up to some stranger’s door. He kept me so busy I forgot to be scared. Then school loomed up. Kids and their grown-ups were coming from all directions.
