A joyful celebration of a truly wonderful real bad grandpa.

Okay, this is the Baddest of the Bad Herself. I promise not to get mushy like this ever again; but here's a story our ninety-four-year-old neighbor's grand-daughter told us about him that I have to share:

"My grandpa -- okay, we always called him Bapa, so that's what I'm going to call him now. Bapa was always looking out for me. He always wanted me to be happy.

"One day, we were all out on a picnic at the beach. My parents had made me a peanut-butter sandwich with apricot jam, which I hated. I figured if I dropped it in the sand, they couldn't make me eat it. Think again. They knew what I was up to and said I still had to have it.

"Bapa waited until they were off a little distance. He watched to make sure they couldn't see us, and then he buried the sandwich in the sand, so they'd think I ate it but I wouldn't really have to."

Floyd Carter, our next-door neighbor for fifteen years, slipped away to join his beloved wife and son last Friday. If there's a Heaven, it will be a happier place now with him in it. We love you, Bapa!