I remember my Great Grandpa Jackson well,
He was my absolute favorite, tongue would tell,
My Great Grandma called him Ray. 
“Ray Jackson,” she’d say 
and we’d all look his way 
to see what kind of mischief, he’d gotten into today. 
He was the one adult in my early young life,
Who’d talk to us like we were just regular folks.
He’d fought in the Big War, but told silly jokes,
and laughed like us kid’s, 
and could not be provoked.
And he told, only me, his war story tales
that plagued his nightmares at night.
I don't think I ever saw him sad or low,
or without a sly knowing smile on his face.
His eyes seemed to sparkle,
his brows jiggled and danced,
he always had a kind word or two to say.
If cheering up were needed, 
he’d always know the right way.
One night when we went there for Sunday dinner,
My Great Grandma made my favorite Sunday food.
Macaroni and cheese, that was blue!
as much roasted pork as you please,
sliced apples and cinnamon too!
Grilled on an old rusty barbeque.
Then the moment we’d waited for all day …
The pay off; a kind of social sorbet.
My beautiful Grandmother said, right on cue,
“Ray Jackson, will you please say grace?”
There was an extra twinkle, in his bright blue eyes.
No disappointment tonight, there’d be no surprise.
My Great Grandpa slowly, simply, clasped his hands.
And then he reverently bowed his head;
while all of us kids held our breath.
Only, I saw an almost imperceptible 
happy tremor on his face.
We were ready and almost anticipated to death,
my crazy-fun grandpa smiled …
and said … simply …