New York Times and decaf coffee.

He was, and continues to be one of the most unwavering people I've ever met. 

His routine was like that of Old Faithful.

Day after day, waking up at 5 am, to rye toast and chilly hardwood floors, spending his days driving school buses around bucolic countryside. He would then return, about 12 hours later, trudging slowly up the front walk, maybe with a few minor, but necessary groceries in hand. 

Then, dinner with wife of 53 years (and still counting...) Upon consumption, he would praise, 'Well, nice dinner momma', clear the table, load the dishwasher, and easily make his way to his notorious perch in the living room. 

     Sigh, leisure time. With feet elevated and reading glasses balanced at the tip of his nose, his face would be perpetually shrouded with the day's New York Times, decaf coffee within arm's reach, and ambient classical music wafting around the room. 

This is my grandpa. 

Patient, hardworking, not desirous of much, except to provide for him and his. His modest, reserved demeanor would never feel the need to gloat about how he wonce worked in a spacious office on the top of a NY skyscraper, or how he was once a big-shot at Bell-Atlantic Telephone Co. No, you'd be more likely to get that out of his beautiful, occasional spit-fire of a bride. (A woman who would bear his four children, watch the birth of their 8 grandchildren, and wash his underwear for the greater half of a century.) 

His hair had since gone salt&pepper, his mid-section increased, as did his cholesterol. His pace slowed from a stride of power and determination, to an ever-faithful, sometimes unsteady trudge. 

This is an excerpt of a short story I'm writing. It's still a rough draft, just a little something I wrote on the train this weekend. Hope you enjoyed.