a visit.

My apologies for yesterday's post. I'm not sure what I was trying to say.

I drank six cans of Pepsi this morning, and went to visit my maternal grandfather at his farmhouse, about an hour north of here. He used to be a dairy farmer, still lives in the house my mom grew up in, but leases the land now. The first time I made butter was a long time ago with Mom and Pappy, with milk as fresh as it comes--one of my first memories. Just plain, salted butter, but man was it delicious!

Pappy never visited me while I was in prison. He never seemed angry with me, but there was no denying his disappointment. Things are still terribly awkward between us most of the time. Mom was a bridge, I guess. Just another reason to miss her.

Grandpa, in spite of everything, seems content, and we had a nice visit this time. A full life lived, few regrets. I told him about what's going on in my life, and he listened. He understands where I am now, I think, maybe more than I do. He said: "People say things get better. You work hard, eventually you'll get your house paid, get you kids out on there own, life gets better, things gets easier. It's not true. By the time you're out from under your mortgage, you're too tired to do anything. And your body starts falling apart. Get the mortgage paid, have open heart surgery. Back stops hurting, your kidney fails. The way I see it, if you have something you want to do, do it now, while you're young. Probably won't get a chance to do it later."

Wonder if he's been reading Schopenhauer.