On donuts, and my grandpa

In the heady days before the North Bridge Mall in Albert Lea (MN) was ever even conceived, the Skyline Mall was all we had (and it didn't have a Wal-Mart back then).

These were the days when Ben Franklin was still a store, when J.C. Penny's was alive and well, and there was also a grocery store named Piggly Wiggly's (or something similar).

Near one of the entrances to the mall (on the opposite side of Sibley and Southwest Junior High) there was a happy little donut shop. I remember going there with my grandpa as a kid, and one day he told me I could have ANY donut I wanted. So, I chose the "Texas Size" chocolate frosted donut. My grandpa told me I'd never eat it all. I told him I would.

I was right. I think it may have been the first time (and one of only a few times until age 20 or so) that my grandpa was wrong and I was right.

I've always had a special relationship with my grandparents, mostly because they were an integral part of our family (and support system) when I was growing up. But I really always had a close bond with my grandpa. With a lack of a father in my own immediate family, my grandpa was kind of the surrogate dad that taught me the "manly" stuff.

My grandpa's garage was essentially a workshop. Wood-working, metal-working, fixing things, creating things, everything I could imagine as a boy could be done in grandpa's garage. He had an old-fashioned drill, a compressor, a grinder, a welder, every tool you could ever imagine. And he always seemed to know everything, and just what to do, or how to fix something. It was a magic place, and he was the master.

Throughout my adult life, I've found that while I'm not one to putz around or even have a workshop of my own, I am able to fix things, reason out how to do it and what I need. I'll probably never change the oil in my own car, but knowing I could if I needed to is comforting. I can only hope that I can be for my sons what my grandpa was for me.

Thanks grandpa.