Because my father died when I was three, my mother, brother, and I lived through my childhood in the upstairs of my grandparents' house. I almost said "my grandmother's house". Here's why:

Grandpa, a one-time cowboy and stagecoach driver, a meatcutter of many years, had put up the down payment all those many years ago, but grandma had essentially paid for the house by taking in roomers, raising and selling canaries and parakeets, sewing, and other projects. She was house-proud, and my steady-workman, man-of-few-words grandpa never gave a sign that the house was anyone's but hers.

Now, grandpa had an eye for the pretty women. "An eye", I say. I don't for a moment want you to think he was unfaithful or a womanizer; I strongly doubt it. But he did love to see and admire and talk to pretty, vivacious women. Grandma never, I think, accused him of any philandering. Whatever thoughts she might have had on the subject were kept private.

I was in the army in Germany in the middle 50s, and grandma would then have been about 82, and grandpa 86. Grandma was, and had been for many years, in rather poor health.

My mother wrote to me regularly, and in one of her letters she told me: "Mother (grandma) told me yesterday that she's terribly afraid that she'll die before Dad does. She's afraid he'll sell her house and spend the money on wild women!"

I represent to you, friends, that at 82 and 86 years of age, THAT'S CONFIDENCE IN YOUR HUSBAND!

Dave Oesterreich