My Grandfather

[Drunk Monk]

You remember right well about the switchblade. Shrapnel severed a nerve in his right hand so he wore a custom wrist brace. He switched to being left-handed fairly easily which made many believe that he was originally left-handed and forced to be right-handed, as was the custom in those days. He was an avid hunter and could still shoot, hooking his claw-like hand over the trigger and pulling with his whole forearm. He did his own taxidermy and his house was littered with stuffed birds, deer pelts and antlers. He shot a bear. There was a huge bear skin rug, the skull mounted on a stand with the cartridge shell, and the legendary gold-capped swizzle stick made from that bear bone.  You know which one. 

He could wield his wounded hand like a mace. It was just skin, tendon and bone, so it hit hard and had minimal feeling for him. He used to wrap me on the skull with it, which sounds horribly gross now but it was what I was raised with and as a kid, you just don't know. You just accept crap like that. He never hit me in anger - it was more teasing - but I didn't spend more than a week or two with him ever and I was his treasured grandson. I imagine if we spent more time together, that would be different. He had a temper, probably PTSD driven in retrospect. 

I have so many odd memories and mementos of him. I have his Purple Heart.