I was in my teens when I caused a memorable grandfatherly tirade. As was often the case, Mother, Dad and I were at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s on Saturday to do some work on or around the house. We had finished our typical lunch of wrinkled wieners, buns and potato chips. The wrinkles in the wieners were due to the fact, we always assumed, that they were leftovers from a special sale that had seen too much time in the refrigerator. I had gotten up from the table and was standing by the kitchen sink. There were still some chips in the bowl on the table and so I reached over, took a hand full and began to eat them. Grandpa blew his top! If I were not through with lunch, then I should sit down and eat. One doesn’t eat standing at the sink.

Then it was Dad’s turn to blow his top. It was all right with him if I snatched a few chips. We all did that. Grandpa countered with the argument that he thought should end all discussion: We’re at my house and I make the rules. And, as if this might not be convincing enough, Grandpa hastened to add that he was Dad’s father and could tell him what was right and wrong, even if Dad was already 50 years old. Dad then issued the direct and clear order to pack up our things. We were leaving! I don’t remember too clearly, but I think Grandma said something about humoring Grandpa and, “You know how he is.”

We didn’t go back to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s for months. We didn’t even talk to them. I remember sitting in the kitchen at home with Mother and being angry with her because we hadn’t seen my grandparents in such a long time. She then asked me if I had never noticed that Mother, Dad and I often had arguments with each other after having been with Grandpa and Grandma. She felt it would be better for the health of our immediate family if we kept to ourselves for a while. Eventually we reestablished contact. But there were still often devastating internal tsunamis at home after grandparental earthquakes at 1900 Tatum.