This post is a continuation of my previous blog post, titled “The Hunter.” If you haven’t already read that, maybe check that one out first so this makes a bit more sense.
Pretty much everyone knew my grandfather at the lodge there, no exaggeration. I went with him to the lodge once or twice and immediately developed a reputation as “Vinny’s grandson.” I never feel too welcomed when I’m known only by my relation to someone else, in the same way that a wrestler probably feels awkward when the fans only cling to their heritage as their gimmick. I don’t want to be known only as so-and-so’s grandson or nephew or whoever; I prefer Anthony in those cases.
But that’s besides the point. I inherited my grandfather’s car from him when I turned 16, though it took a few months for me to eventually get my license. He was gracious enough to give it to me, even though he could still drive at the time.
I remember one time being asked to handle my grandfather’s ammunition. I think I was around 12 at the time. He was very polite about it, and he showed me everything I needed to know about how to load a gun, how to reload, and how to clean off your ammunition supply. Not that I ever really needed to know any of that, considering I’m not a hunter these days and I don’t much care for the hobby in practice, but still, those are sweet memories that I have with my grandfather. They won’t go away any time soon.
This post was originally going to be about Monster Hunter, but instead I decided partway through writing it that I wanted it to be about my grandfather instead. He was a good guy, and at times like these I do miss him a lot.