Seymore.

Seymore. My grandfather's brother. His friends called him Skippy. He was born in 1922 to a Russian mother & Austrian father, the 2nd youngest of seven children {like me}. I helped him do the math to determine his age, & his response was, "Man, I'm old!" When he looked at the pictures taken of us on my digital camera he said, "Man, I'm ugly!". His eyes sparkle just like Grandpa's & his ears are just as big. He tells stories like Grandma did, too... same descriptive words & animated tones. He's a tiny man- no bigger than 4'10", although he claims 5' {there is just no way}. He was raised an observant Jew by his Orthodox mother. He loves romance novels, old movies, gambling & Atlantic City {I promised I'd take him}. He refuses to wear his dentures. He claims an intolerance only of "stupid people". His memory is terrible, but we talked for a few hours about the things he could remember- square dancing, his mom's apple upside-down cake, his father's drawings, & his brother Phil {killed in the war, my father being his namesake}. He's never used a computer, & doesn't remember if he has ever typed on a typewriter. He craves freedom, so much so that he has a tracking bracelet on his ankle- the staff at his home love him, but informed me of his wandering ways. He loves having a suntan. He hugs liberally. He went for the sour cream spice cupcake {from Buttercup}.

I'm lucky to have the family history that I do. They are, and were, good people.