My Grandpa was, for lack of a better term, a baller-ass dude.
He was a great man, a great father, extremely loving, and fun to be around. We used to hang out all the time, laugh, and make fun of people, back when I was a little kid. He would throw parties every week and always knew how to have a good time. He was born and raised in Romania and he lived there with his family until my mother was about 16 years old. They all made it to America, after years of trying, and a few bullets lodged into my uncle Doru’s spine during an illegal immigration incident on a train. Things were different back then. Growing up and living in a communist nation must have been so strange. Sometimes I just look at my mom and my grandmother and think about how crazy and different things were for them at one point.
All of their Romanian friends eventually made it over as well, and they’ve always maintained their own tight-knit community. I’ve always admired that. They were all best friends then, and they still are today, just in a different place. This is all old news for the most part, but it’s nice to reflect on the past every once in a while.
I visited my Grandpa’s grave today, and I really miss that man. I wish I could have known him in his youth, I’m sure we would have had tons of fun together.
I love you, Tataia. You da man.
