One of my grandfathers died before I was born, and the other one died when I was about four.  I remember him, but not well.

I mentioned in one of my podcasts that I spent parts of four years of my life poisoning prairie dogs.  I enjoyed almost every minute of it, and I particularly enjoyed my boss and his wife, Leo and Rosalie Stangle.

They had reached the stage in life where they had happily assumed their identities as “Grandpa” and “Grandma.”  Virtually everyone else who worked for them was part of their family, and so everyone, including themselves when addressing each other, referred to them as “Grandpa” or “Grandma.”  In an attempt at convenience, and also possibly because of my affection for them, it didn’t take me long to get into the spirit of things and start calling them “Grandpa” and “Grandma” as well.

I could not see that this set of circumstances would lead to awkward encounters later on.  I had assumed that, given the fact that I was nearly a foot taller than any biological member of the Stangle family, my real relationship to them would be obvious to outside observers.  Apparently the human race can be awful understanding when they spot a goose in a family of ducks.

A year or so later, I ran into an acquaintance I had made during my prairie dog days at a truck stop in Rapid City.  We had a nice chat by the pumps as we each helped put a Saudi through college.  We talked about her family, and horses and rodeo (she’s a “trick rider,” and from what I’ve heard, a good one) and then she asked me “And how’s your Grandpa?”

If she had just said “How’s Grandpa” instead of “How’s your Grandpa” I might have got it, but I didn’t.  While trying to figure out where she would have met my grandpa, I said “Oh, he’s dead.”  She got a horrified look on her face.  “Oh I didn’t know that.  When did he die?”

“1983,” I replied.

Oh, you meant “Grandpa”…