I’ve been working with an extraordinarily talented poet named Mark Smith to help him put together materials for a Children’s book of sorts. Gramps is one of the pieces I’ve created. The poem itself seems to describe what begins as a pretty mundane setting, with an element I think everyone can relate to in some manner. Everyone has or had a crazy relative that always managed to do something weird on Christmas morning. Be it giving out unsuitable gifts, eating the turkey like a savage barbarian, everyone has a memory of Christmas that is indelibly etched into our memories – at the time, it might have been horrifying or disappointing, but in retrospect, it’s what made Christmas, Christmas. In my case, I believe it was my Father’s relentless and uncompromising need to wear a ratty old bathrobe that left little to the imagination for the entire proceedings. One would glance up to thank him for his thoughtful (or entirely last-minute guess) gift, and get a wide-eyed view of far too much.
That problem was solved when I realized I could kill two birds with one stone one christmas not long ago, and splurged on a rather large, and incredibly comfortable bathrobe.