What I like about this drawing is that it hints very subtly at the disconnect between a child’s experience and his/her parent’s.

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My grandpa, Wallace Oscar Hughes, died six years ago yesterday. Thanks to the magic of the internet though, his life continues to unfold for me. Every once in a while, I get a phone call or an email from one of his friends, his colleagues, or his collectors. (He was a wildlife artist.)

This month, I got an email from Gene Smith who shared this story with me: “I played a joke on him once: While he was away from his desk, I tipped a bottle of fake black ‘ink’ on some layouts he was sketching. When he returned and saw the stuff, he said not a word, but his neck and face turned a beautiful shade of red. He realized he’d been had when our giggling turned to laughter. Then he said, ‘Why, you miserable…’ and joined in the merriment. I was on guard for several days, expecting reciprocity, but it never came. He was such a gentleman.”

I love this story because my grandpa was the closest person to a saint that I will probably ever meet, and this is as close as he ever came to cursing in any story that I have ever heard about him.

If you would like to read more about my grandpa, click here.

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Watching Bernie go head-to-head with Hillary is like watching my grandparents fight. Grandpa is cooler because he calls grandma on her bullshit. The game IS rigged! But I’m not going to demonize grandma for playing the game on my behalf. (In fact, I am honestly excited to have a grandma as president. No one cares about the future more than a grandma does.)

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