Member-only story
Grandpa Ain’t No Snitch
A short story from childhood about being caught red-handed but finding out Gramps has your back.
Growing up in Upper Michigan the winters were unbearably long. Thanks to the Great Lakes, they’re longer winters than in much of Canada. They’re — trick-or-treating with snow pants under your costume and Memorial Day Parades with melting, sand-covered snowbanks on the street — long.
A winter that takes up most of the year inevitably creates a painfully short summer and that means a short, hectic wedding season.
We grew up in a tight-knit church and had an extremely large family, so there were always weddings. Way too many of my childhood, summer Saturdays were spent back in church, listening to the monotonous droning of the minister as I imagined my army men rappelling around the rafters Toy Story style.
The weddings were all similar, copy-and-paste affairs and almost Mennonite in their mundanity. They were always in the church with family and friends from the church, ham and cheese sandwiches on rolls, and lots of raspberry jello. The food after the ceremony was eaten on fold-out tables in the dining area of the church and that was the “wedding reception.” There was no DJ, no dancing, and definitely no alcohol.
