When my Grandpa was young, he hopped a freight car to sneak in the World's Fair in New York. He rode through Futurama, saw the Trylon, the Perisphere and, inside the Perisphere, must have seen Democracity, a model world with fun suburbs for small families. Maybe four or five years later, he was stationed in Belgium as an Army truck-driver. He supplied the frontline during the end part of the war. Once, taking a piss in the woods, he spotted a German soldier. They saw each other and walked away.

When he returned to Massachusetts, my Grandpa became a cop and married the wealthiest Irish girl in town. He grew up orphan and Irish, so he was proud she was Irish and rich. He had four kids. He told my dad he'd met William Frederick Cody and seen his Wild West Show. My dad says Mr. Cody (a.k.a. Buffalo Bill) was dead before my Grandpa was born.

During his tenure as police officer, my Grandpa directed a lot of traffic and played a lot of card games (no one I know beats him at Spades). He also stabbed someone through the hand. Now, the scenario seems lifted from a Charles Bronson teleplay. Could be, and since they're both WWII vets, I'll relate it: A storekeeper complained that someone stole fruit from him daily. My Grandpa hides in a barrel, sees the guy, then trails him for a while. Soon enough, he ends up in a sketchy part of town and mean looking dudes crawl out from alleys and doorways. Someone's got a knife, but the knife goes through the thief's hand instead of my Grandpa's stomach and nails the appendage on a post. The mean looking dudes scatter, so my Grandpa collars the thief. My Grandpa was proud of the catch, probably proud the dude was Black, and you can guess his views on race aren't polite.

My Grandpa also liked Belgium. He visited the country and my family during the Eighties. After my grandmother died, he married another wealthy woman, but she'd grown up in Belgium. His closest friend now, his stepson-in-law, lives with him. He's Black and my Grandpa loves him. But he'll complain about Black guys and Puerto Ricans and Mexicans and call my dad a meathead 'till he dies. And I love him.

- Peter Moran