Mother used to say “When it rains, it pours.”
I’d walk out to the patio and say “Mom? That’s just Grampa on the roof with the hose.”
Mother never said much about that. It was bad enough that Grampa lived with us, making a scene at every meal, accusing Germans of poisoning his soup…
“That’s meat loaf, Grampa, not soup.”
“DAMN THE KAISER!” he’d shout, diving under the table.
The stories he’d tell me, well, they were magical. Tales of… well… I mean… magical stories…
Okay, fine. I ignored the crazy old coot.
Pass the meat loaf… I mean soup.