I’ve done some muttering since Blog 2 about days gone by, filled with memories. One comes quickly to mind, about my paternal grandpa who was a hoot. Talk about a guy who loved to BS, tell tales taller then the Empire State Building. Stories I will never delete from my right brain. They’re branded so deep. It’s scarred by so many of his stories. I would visit him during baseball season on my way to practice. He was, I’m guessing, in his early eighties then. There he’d be in his usual spot. On the porch sitting in his rocker watching the world pass by. He’d see me with my gear. His mind would quickly google BASEBALL. I’d walk up the little trail leading to where his butt was glued to his rocker. He’d give me a big wave. I’d return his wave. We didn’t hug back then. Just shake hands. I’d sit on the top stairs. He’d start to tell me when he was a young man like me, he played all positions on the Parker Ranch team. Pitching was his favorite spot. Only had to play six innings because he only threw fifty-four pitches. “Only fifty-four pitches tutu man? (Hawaiian word for grandpa).” “Fifty-four. Game over. And you know what else Robber?” He never called me Robert; I don’t know why. “What?” He had my undivided attention by then. “My pitches were so fast; the ump could barely see the ball. And I had to have a new catcher every inning because my pitches were so hard. Their hands hurt. And you know what else? Every time I went to bat, I hit a home run. Every time. Some as far as five miles.” I was in total awe of my tutu man. When I got home that evening, I had told our ma his stories. She popped my bubble. Tell us about your tutu man. Or tutu lady.