When I was young, I didn’t have a father, so my grandpa ended up filling that role. My grandpa had a very “sink or swim” attitude to teaching me things. The biggest example is when he taught me to ride horses when I was seven.

Grandpa plops me in the saddle, hands me the reins, and sticks my feet in the stirrups.

Grandpa: “Pull this one to go left.” *Tugs the left rein* “Pull this one to go right.” *Tugs the right rein* “Pull both to stop. Kick him to go. Got it?”

Me: “Got it.”

Grandpa: “Good.”

He takes his hat off, swats the pony’s hindquarters, and yells after the now galloping pony.

Grandpa: “Figure out the rest on your own!”

I have an aunt who doesn’t get invited to family functions very often. Stuff like this is why.

It’s my grandma’s birthday. My dad and his siblings, including my aunt, decide to treat her to a new restaurant my grandma has wanted to try ever since they opened. We make reservations, arrive, and are seated, and our server comes over to take our drink orders.

Aunt: “I’ll have a Coke.”

Server: “I’m sorry, ma’am, we only have Pepsi products. Would Pepsi be okay?”

Aunt: *HUGE dramatic sigh* “Well, I only drink Coke, so no, Pepsi’s not okay.”

Server: “I’m sorry. Is there something else I can get you? We have [other drink choices].”

Aunt: *Another HUGE dramatic sigh* “No. I only drink Coke. Nothing else. Why don’t you serve Coke?”

Grandma: “[Aunt], that’s enough! Be nice to her or leave. I don’t want you to ruin my birthday dinner just because you’re a snob.”

Aunt: “Mom, you know I only drink Coke! Pepsi just tastes awful to me. I don’t know how you people can be okay with drinking it.”

Grandma: “Then leave. Go home and buy your own Coke.”

Aunt: “Well, they could find a way to get me a Coke.”

Grandma: “They don’t serve Coke! I’m not joking, [Aunt]. Shut up and order something else, or leave.”

My aunt starts fake crying, but when she finally realizes that nobody is on her side, she stands up and shouts, “I’m never coming to this restaurant again!” and storms out the door.

My grandma turns back to our server, who has been standing at our table the entire time looking like she wants to cry for real.

Grandma: “It’s not your fault, dear. She’s always been like that. My other kids, as you can see—” *gestures around the table* “—are perfectly normal, so I don’t know where she gets it from. Anyway, you’re doing great, so don’t let an entitled b**** like her get to you. If you need to take some time to calm down, that’s okay. I think we’re all still deciding what we want to eat, so you can head back to the kitchen for a while while we look through the menu.”

Our server nodded and walked back to the kitchen. The rest of the night went very well. Those of us still at the table had a great time, the food was delicious, and the server was wonderful once she realized that my aunt really was the crazy one in my family. We left her a huge tip, and we’ve gone back to the restaurant a few times for special occasions, but we’ve never invited my aunt to join us.

My sisters and I notice that we all have a reaction whenever we eat cucumbers. We develop facial swellings and sores when we eat anything that contains cucumbers. I have the least of the reactions, developing what look like large pimples to the sides of my chin. My younger sister will have a much larger ulcer on her cheek, while our eldest sister has both reactions and also has thyroid swellings. We all decline dishes that include cucumbers when offered, even though we all like the flavour.

Our grandmother is plating up some salads for our dinner.

Me: “Please don’t put cucumber on [Younger Sister]’s, [Elder Sister]’s, or my plates. We have an allergy to it.”

Grandmother: *Scoffs* “Hmph, there’s no such thing as allergies. I had four children and none of them ever had allergies. No one in our family ever had allergies. You can’t have allergies to cucumber; you just don’t like it.”

Mother: “Just don’t put it on their plates.”

Grandmother: “They have to eat it; it’s good for them.”

Mother: “Well, why haven’t you put any on [Brother]’s plate?”

Grandmother: “He doesn’t like it.”

Mother: *Gesturing to my grandfather’s plate* “Well, what about Dad’s? You haven’t put any on his plate, either.”

Grandmother: “He likes cucumber but can’t eat it because it doesn’t agree with him.”

That means he has some sort of reaction when he eats it.  

Mother: “So, he has an allergic reaction to it?”

Grandmother: “No, it’s different; it just doesn’t agree with him.”

Growing up, my paternal grandpa is my best friend. My parents like to tell the story that we were linked the second he held me in his arms; he saw my tiny face with my little peanut nose, and from that moment on, he only ever called me Peanut… unless I was in trouble, of course. 

My grandpa put me on my first horse, and he taught me how to change my oil and check my tire pressure, bait a hook and catch a fish, and shoot a BB gun — much to my parents’ disdain. He was at every softball game and every musical, choir, and band performance I had. He was my biggest fan, always encouraging me to go the extra mile and celebrating every step of the way.

I’m in my mid-thirties now and he’s nearing ninety. His health has been declining for several years now, but this year, 2020, has been especially rough. He often gets confused, thinking my dad is his brother or thinking it’s the 1990s and that we need to get ready for the big snowstorm coming in.

I go home one day in June for the first time since the health crisis began and see that his home care nurse is there. My grandma is in the kitchen with my parents, waiting for the nurse to finish dressing him so he can sit in the living room.

I stand in the doorway, not sure if I am really up for seeing my grandpa in such a dissociative state; my mental health has really taken a hit with everything going on and, standing in the doorway, I debate if coming home was a good idea.

The bedroom door opens and Grandpa comes out with his walker, focusing on the floor.

Nurse: “That’s it, [Grandpa], one step at a time. Don’t you feel better now?”

My grandpa speaks in a tone that shows he doesn’t mean it.

Grandpa: “Uh-huh…”

The nurse looks up at the table.

Nurse: “Oh, you have company! Who’s here today?”

Grandpa: “Um…”

He looks from my mom to my grandma, confused.

Nurse: “It’s okay; take your time. Who do you see?”

My grandpa looks to my dad.

Grandpa: “I see [My Uncle].”

Nurse: “Well, they do look alike but I think that’s [My Dad].”

Grandpa: “Okay.”

Nurse: “Who else? Who is that by the door?”

Grandpa looks at me for a second or two and then smiles.

Grandpa: “Hi, Peanut!”

Me: *Trying not to cry* “Hi, Grandpa.”

I haven’t seen him much these past few months, but I’m hoping to be able to go home and see him again soon.

This story is part of our feel-good roundup for August 2020!

Read the next feel-good story here!

Read the feel-good August 2020 roundup!

My younger sister is fifteen and I’m twenty when this story takes place. Due to certain circumstances, we’re both living with our grandma — sixty-three — and her mother — eighty-four. My great-grandma has always been a bit high strung, but usually, she lets us handle ourselves. Usually.

My sister has gone out to a holiday party with a local LGBT youth group and it’s getting on in the evening. She’s supposed to call us when she’s ready and I’ll drive to pick her up with my great-grandma in the car. I’ve had my license for three years and she generally considers me a good driver, which is what makes part of this so baffling.

It’s about seven-thirty at night when the worrying starts.

Great-Grandmother: “Do you think she’s okay? It’s getting awful late.”

Me: “It’s not anywhere near late enough to end a party.”

Great-Grandmother: “I’m just worried she’s out walking the streets with all those kids. [Street] has some crime, you know.”

Me: “Grandma, it’s a supervised party. They won’t just let the kids wander around no matter how late it gets.”

Great-Grandmother: “I just worry she’s out and about in the cold. You know she only brought a thin jacket? I worry about her in the cold.”

Me: “Grandma, [Sister] hates the cold. She’s not going to be out and about in it if she doesn’t have to, and she’s old enough to make her own decisions regarding jackets.”

Great-Grandmother: “It’s just awful late.”

Variations on these concerns repeat periodically for the next two and a half hours.

Me: “Grandma! If you don’t quit fussin’, I’m gonna send you to bed! She’ll call us when she’s ready and she can handle herself.”

Great-Grandmother: “Okay, okay!”

Sure enough, my sister calls soon after and we’re on our way. And then, further worrying starts.

Great-Grandmother: “Be careful of those parked cars.”

Great-Grandmother: “Look both ways here; it’s a bit of a blind turn.”

Great-Grandmother: “You can turn now.”

Finally, there’s the comment that breaks me. My great grandmother sees a cop car parked along the side of the road. 

Great-Grandmother: “Remember to stop at this red light!”

Me: “Grandma! I did not, in fact, get my license out of a cereal box!”

She only fretted one more time that journey, about backing out in an empty parking lot, and she apologized to me the next morning!