Grumpy’s Girls


My dad is Grumpy. He’s not grumpy as in the adjective—well, okay, he is that too, but that’s not the point. The capital “G” is because he is Grumpy, the proper noun. (Yes, like one of the seven dwarves only taller, more handsome, and quite handy.)

Back when my parents’ first grandchild, my niece Samantha, was born, my mother declared that she was far too young to be a grandma, so she wanted to be called Nonnie. We then set about trying to decide what my dad should be called. We think it was my mom who teased and suggested, “How about Grumpy?”  You’d have to know my dad to understand that the name fit but in a completely endearing way. So it stuck. He’s been Grumpy ever since.

Since his fatherhood, he’s been surrounded by girls. He and my mom had three girls, and then each of his girls had a girl (with one grandson thrown in for good measure).  And he adores them all.  And all his girls adore him.

Yep, the kids love their Grumpy. No one is scared off by his swearing rants, his calling everyone “knothead” or his repeated head shaking and proclamations that there’s “not one normal one in the bunch.” Like I do, they see his heart. He’d probably argue with you, but my dad’s a good man.  And he’s a great Grumpy.

The kind of Grumpy who lets his granddaughter play in his work truck and takes her on tractor rides

The kind of Grumpy who builds his granddaughter a swing set just because she loves to “fwing”

The kind of Grumpy who teaches his granddaughters how to fish and how to shoot a bow and arrow

The kind of Grumpy who doesn’t sit or stand still well (hence the lack of better photos for this post). The kind of Grumpy who has just a veneer of grump, but not enough to hide the kindness of his soul and the hint of pride in his eyes when he’s with his girls.

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