When I
was six
my
grandfather, Harold, died--
though
I never called him “Grandfather”
and
definitely never “Harold.”
“Grampa”
was a much more suitable term
for a
brown cigarette smoking, Hee Haw watching,
take-your-teeth-out-and-sprinkle-black-pepper-
on-raw-hamburger-and-eat-it
kind of guy.
So
when I heard “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,”
I
tried to picture it: all the Harold angels
up
there,
singing,
angelic.
I
loved him,
but if
you'd have known Grampa
you'd
have had your doubts, too.