Eight

My Grandfather's birthday was August 8. He was tickled pink the year it fell on 8-8-88, and had his whole life looked forward to the day it would have been 8-8-8. He passed away twelve years ago, so my mother and I made a grand celebration of this birthday.

In the late 1950's, my grandfather was working his way through law school as a garbage man so that he could feed his four children. He finished and became a lawyer, and practiced many different kinds of law throughout his career, often representing the so-called underdog: the poor or needy, innocent soul who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He would often accept unorthodox forms of payment: work on his house or in the garden; cars or other material possessions. I grew up hearing stories of this time in his career -- his wife, my Grandma Jackie, would often scold him for accepting such payments: "Skip, I cannot feed your children with this!"

In retirement, the statuesque attorney moved to the family ranch on a river in La Pine, Oregon -- a town so small that if you blink when passing through, you will miss it -- grew a ponytail, and had plans to get matching tattoos with his wife. He and Jackie were like honeymooners even in their sixties; so loving and affectionate. I can still remember his excited laugh, how his shoulders and face would scrunch with excitement, and his voice become high-pitched like a child. The man loved life, and lived a full one, though I would have loved to have more years to know him.

As a memorial to him, my mother and I went to have eights tattooed on ourselves at 8pm on August 8, 2008. So we missed the Olympic opening ceremonies, but we did share an experience that I suspect will be a bit longer-lasting.