Sippin' on Grandpa's Cough Syrup

If you've ever met my Gram, she's the picture of most of the things I want to be some day. She's elegant and well read. She has excellent taste in food, clothes, and her house puts those home remodelling shows to shame. I've never seen such eclectic and classy style all in one place. She has an eye for color, a nose for good martinis, and a shoe collection that would make most women faint. These things pale in comparison, of course, to her charm, her humor, and her quick wit. I come from a family of fast-talking, ice selling (you've heard the joke, he can sell ice to Eskimos), smooth operating salesmen. These men are tight with their money, relentless with their sarcasm, and some of the most charming men I know. My Gram has learned to run along side her husband for the last 60+ years. She keeps him in line, makes sure he's well dressed**, can survive his frugal ways and his sarcasm. These days, she's mostly confined to a recliner where she sits looking out at a golf course all day. She remains one of the most well coiffed women I know. She seems to sleep in such a way that her weekly make up application and hair dos are undisturbed when she slumbers. She also says the darndest things. Here's a conversation from my last visit:
Gram: Richie dear, when should we expect visitors for Thanksgiving dinner
Richie (my grandfather): We'll I think people should start arriving around 4PM. We'll start our cocktail hour then.
Gram: What time do you expect to serve dinner?
Richie: Well, I'm not sure Gram. What do you think?
Gram: Don't wait too long. If you have a long cocktail hour, the whole family*** will be smashed by dinner.

Now let me give you some context here. Without going into details, I'll say that I come from a family who likes to drink and tell stories at holidays. Not your plucky family stories about the time you [insert mildly embarrassing moment here]. These are the stories that turn your ears red, the stories you'd think were "safe" with family. With the motto, "Work hard, play harder," it's no surprise that the family coat of arms has been replaced with a family drink, the whiskey sour.

**This year, my grandfather was not dressed by my grandmother. He traded comfort for fashion and sported some black elastic waist velour pants with his dress shirt and his tie tucked into pants. He was so precious.

***In Mr. Pete's defence, he never really indulges in the whiskey sours.