I seriously started to cry when I opened this.

George is my Grandfather. He died of cancer when I was young. He was a total bad ass Texan - an old school Texan. The last time I saw him was right before he got really sick. He took my brother, sister and I out to shoot his rifles, I was around 8. I remember how heavy the gun was and how hard it was to aim it. And I remember how happy he was when I hit the coffee tin after a gazillion tries.

There are lots of great stories about my grandparents - my brother “the werewolf” was born the same weekend I was. In the back of my grand parent’s pick up truck.

My parents had sent them down to Corpus to stay for a couple of weeks. One night they were coming back from dinner and my brother asked Grandma and Grandpa if he could ride in the truck bed - a pretty big deal for a 9 year old. An even bigger deal? Being a 6 year old girl that wants to ride in the pick up bed too.

The more my brother protested, the more insistent my sister became. So my Grandparents let them both ride in the back (it was covered by a shell). As soon as they closed the doors my brother turned to my sister and said “You’re gonna be sorry” and as they drive along the dark Texas road he began to tell her about a bite he received while camping a few weeks back.

He wasn’t sure what it was at first, he told her, but as the weeks passed he began to understand more and more why he was changing.

STOP IT JEFF she said.

But you don’t understand, my brother continued, I CAN’T STOP IT!! as he began scratching the truck bed, softly snarling before emitting a low long howl of arrroooooooooo

My sister scrambled for the front towards the cabin window as my brother’s transformation intensified. Stop it, stop!! she said close to tears as she banged in the windows to get my grandparent’s attention.

At this point both grandma and grandpa were a little hard of hearing so it took a moment before they realized Gretchen was knocking on the window, clawing desperately at it trying to escape the creature in the truck bed. Turning my grandmother saw her there, smiled at her and waved.

Bu that point I think they had vision problems too.

My Grandfather was in the army, he sprayed asbestos insulation into things. He was a bad ass Texan who had just started getting sick when taught me to shoot a gun I could barely hold. He died about month later. That’s how vicious mesothelioma is.

I was too young to really understand then, but when I opened that envelope and saw that ribbon - I remembered him from an adult’s perspective. And I cried.