"I see a zebra. I see a monkey, I see a leopard..." and on and on this would go until one of us would run out animal memory. We laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling for hours sometimes, playing this game. Even if there had magically been animals on the ceiling it wouldn't have mattered as my grandpa was blind as a bat. This was what made it so amusing, that we could never stop laughing.
Following my mom's delusional stories about my father, leaving me unable to see him, I spent every weekend at my grandpa's. Just me and my blind, crippled, hilarious grandpa left to our own devices. Muwahaha!

J. T. Carter, aka Jack. Given only initials as a name at birth, the story goes that the Army wouldn't accept that and named him Jack T. Carter. So it stuck.
Stories were my grandpas best skill. He would tell me some whoppers and then I had to guess if they were true. Funny thing is, he never would answer if I was right or wrong with my guess.

I would do chores in the only part of the ginormous house he occupied, the basement. This was not just any boring basement, complete with a full bar, living area, dining room, kitchen, hidden rooms, long hallways. However the best part of this basement were the stories. Stories of many bullet holes in the knotty pine wood and the hidden doors and closets. Each and every cabinet in the storage room had a color code and separate lock containing a story of its very own.

My chore of mopping the never ending floor was by far the most comical of times. I would fill the bucket with a silly smile on my face and as if he could see me he would say "no smiles allowed" and then we would laugh. Slapping down as hard as I could the soaking wet mop, moving it to a fro he would say "you missed a spot" and once again we would burst into laughter. This was a long lasting game and never got old. No, I never really did mop that floor, ever. My only other, and most important chore was to make his toast. Not just plain, throw it in and toast it toast, this has to be perfectly golden brown, still soft yet faintly toasted toast. Four, sometimes more loves of bread would be on the silver edged formica table as I arrived. I knew exactly how much fun we were going to have based on the number of loaves! Toast. Fail. Throw them like frisbees out the door trying to make it all the way to nine mile creek. Repeat. Of course he was the blind judge of my distance all the while critiquing my throw.

Those bullet holes had a different story ever time I asked. My favorite had to be the one telling of a young lad interested in dating his daughter, my mom. This young lad came to visit and meet grandpa, intending to woo him with his smooth, slimy self. Grandpa seeing right through him began to make him dance by firing shots towards his feet. Only problem with this tale is that the holes were in the walls not the floor. There was of course the oh so believable story of the rabid seven hundred pound snake that tried to take over the Carter home. No, I have yet to find out the real story behind the bullet holes and honestly don't want to as I prefer the image of my blind grandfather chasing and firing shots at a rabid seven hundred pound snake.

Oh how I miss that ridiculously entertaining, crack me up, always joyful man!