|posted: 10/6/2018 at 10:30:17 AM ET|
Grandpa Max cherished butter cookies. He appreciated his Chivas Regal from a heavy cut-glass decanter, however the little butter cookies with coarse sugar sprinkles simply needed to come from a can.
His pleasures had been easy born from a childhood of poverty, and his want for tidiness bordered on compulsion. Grandpa did all of the ironing and packed all of the suitcases, every layer of garments sandwiched between tissue paper and sheets of plastic recycled from the dry cleaners. It was Grandpa Max who would stand in my bed room like a soldier and educate me how you can reassemble my dissheveld sheets and blanket into a correct mattress. I had sleep in my eyes and my Barbie nightgown was twisted round me like a frenzied static sock. "Make ya' mattress after ya' git oudda it, kiddo." he provided, wearing his signature starched Van Hussen and perma-press pants. "This, not orange juice, is the way in which to begin the morning." Then he'd present me how you can get a brush by my tangled brown hair.