Family Matters.

He was gruff. But always smelled sweet.

As a kid, it confused me.

How could smoking a pipe be bad for you, yet smell so yummy?

He'd turned the guest bedroom into an electronic wonderland. CB radios everywhere.

I still remember the back of his bald head. Smoke billowing from his pipe. His throaty voice. The crackle of the signal. His wrinkled hand blindly reaching for a piece of black licorice from the dish my Granny stocked routinely.

I hate black licorice. But I ate hundreds of pieces of it. To prove I loved him.

He'd hurl me onto his lap and I'd wiggle until his chin rested on top of my head. I felt safe, cocooned in his arms, surrounded by the hum of his heart and the constant movement of his hands as he tuned, dialed and flipped switches.

I'd listen intently as he talked to his buddies about everything from politics to farming to how mad he was that his "God damn grandchildren couldn't keep the back door shut."

Anything he tried to teach me, I tried to memorize. I learned which buttons to push when. If I pushed without permission, I got my hand slapped. If I made one of his CB buddies laugh, he'd tousle my hair and wink.

I loved when he winked. His face might have been wrinkly, but my grandfather's blue eyes were alive, young and vibrant. When he was mad, they grew scary and dark. But get him tickled, and his eyes said more than his mouth ever could - or would.

I was in the fourth grade when he died. I never got to say goodbye.

Not formally.

My parents left Brett and I with a sitter while they flew to Tennessee.

I did say goodbye, though. In a way I knew he'd understand.

I climbed a tree in our yard.

Wiped my tears.

Angled my face toward heaven.

And I winked.