Happy 95th Birthday Grandpa!

My Grandpa Doc was born January 31, 1912, a little bit more than 3 month before the Titanic set sail and ran into an iceberg, five years before the USA entered World War I (not World War II). My grandfather lived through the Great Depression (the biggest oxymoron in our languge, there was nothing great about it.) My grandpa taught me how to golf and how to swear, for hellsakes. My grandpa also taught me the value of a dollar, of course he taught me the value of a 1942 dollar and not a 1982 dollar, but that's beside the point. My grandpa taught me to eat beans and love it. He never perfected them and I thought the only good beans were the kind you buy in a can (because they were soft) until I went to Brazil and discovered that the trick is to put them in a pressure cooker and season them with onions and bay leaves.

My grandpa passed away 6 years ago and Salt Lake City has been less colorful ever since. There's nobody left to tell ethnic jokes and lawyer jokes. He was the last politically incorrect person I knew. He'd go to a restaurant and call the waitress, "honey" or "sweetheart". He'd refer to women as gals. Yeah, that's sexist, and I wont repeat any of it. The ethnic jokes are better off dead too and I should have never laughed at them. But my grandpa was one funny sunuvabitch!