I have visited many a blog recently that has delved into childhood memories of one sort or another. As I'm generally not very original, I am going to share one of my own with you.

My grandfather, who is now deceased, was undoubtedly one of the coolest people who ever walked this planet. He was a very big man, standing at 6'2", and when I was very young, he was perhaps almost as big around. He was bald, had a quick wit, knew no strangers, and loved his family to the core of his being. I always loved him.

When I was very small, my grandfather and I shared really cool things together. He used to take me on walks along the golf course, which ran behind his house, in search of stray golf balls. He'd fish them out of what we called "The Crick," which translates to a Witcher, West Virginia version of the word creek. It was really just a big ditch, but "The Crick" it was until its demise many years later.

My grandfather was also a gardener. His garden spanned the entire length of his house and took up possibly a quarter of a lot. One of my favorite pasttimes was walking through the garden with him. Before the tender shoots began to make their way out of the dirt, I couldn't tell what areas were safe to walk on and which had seedlings just below the surface. My grandfather would tell me "Step on my feet, Dusti," which meant that it was safe to step in his footprints. His feet were large and his footsteps spaced rather far apart, and I remember having to jump to meet each step he took.

The best times, however, were the times he took me out in his golf cart to a manmade pond not far from the house. We'd bring a partial loaf of Roman Meal bread with us, park the golf cart off to the side of the path, and feed the ducks. Near the pond was a nasty little bathroom and a water fountain. I had to drink from that fountain every time we went, and he had to lift me to reach it each and every time. We didn't talk much during these outings, but it was always cool just to be with my Paw.

The golf cart was housed in the garage, and every time we pulled into the driveway from one of our duck feeding excursions, I would yell, "Open Sesame, " wave my hands in the air as if to telekinetically raise the garage doors, and without fail, they would open. I knew in my heart that I was magic, and my grandfather never told me any differently. It turned out that my grandmother would sit by the window and watch for us to pull into the driveway and would go out to the garage and open the door.

As a young adult, when I visited with him, my grandfather would tell and retell his favorite stories of his memories from when my brother, sister, and I were little. This was never one of them, but it has always been among mine.

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