"Eat, my son," he mumbled excitedly in broken English. "See how well the taste!"
I choked down an unexpected kick of pepper and smiled, tears filling my eyes. My grandfather's rhetoric was the kind that only makes sense if you just skim it to get the general idea rather than lingering on details. After all, that's how his mind worked. He was a genius, simply put. Worlds of imagination raced through his mind and pulsated through his jittery fingertips at all times. He kept toothpicks in his hands to fumble with as he carried on the most whimsical conversations with anyone or anything what would listen.
Worker Ants seemed to understand him the best and he enjoyed walking alongside them as they marched to and fro. They had a daily path from beneath his front porch out to the man-hole located in the middle of the street 20 yards off, and back. And grandpa would pace with them each morning for at least 3 hours, sometimes regaling old war stories and sometimes just humming an accompaniment to their labor. One would typically whistle, yes; but humming better suits the work of ants anyway. He explained this to me once. So he hummed and they marched on to his tunes.
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