I am not sure there was ever a morning that Grandpa Wadlow didn't prepare himself a giant bowl of oatmeal. Perhaps when he and my Grandma were traveling or when he worked full-time before retirement gave him an open schedule for the day? But, as soon as I was old enough to pay attention, Grandpa always got up early, walked the quarter-mile gravel lane several times with his beloved black lab, Zion, and then came home to fix himself a steaming hot bowl of oatmeal.

My Mother has often told me of her childhood and how Grandpa strongly felt that oatmeal was in a nutritional category of its very own, possibly taking up a whole square (or rhombus?) of the food pyramid. My Mother, while an oatmeal lover to this day, did not always share his love for the grainy goodness. She would fill her cheeks to near explosion, then run down the street with chipmunk cheeks to spit out the once piping hot, turned gooey and cold substance in her Grandmother's bathroom sink.

I am not sure if her Grandmother scolded her or just pretended not to notice this daily ritual that went on for several years of her childhood. Years later, I did the same thing; only my food nemesis was canned corn. I hated the stuff. I kept it locked in my cheeks for hours after dinner, oftentimes making myself sick, until I finally felt I had no option but to swallow it whole. (It never occurred to me to spit it out!)

This morning, I decided to have a nice steaming hot bowl (rather, mug) of oatmeal. I put far too much water in the cup, making it a soupy mess. But once I added a small spoonful of brown sugar, I gulped it up like a baby bird eating its first worm. It was delicious, nutritious, and, best of all, brought back warm memories of my beloved Grandfather.

I have never been much of a 'breakfast person'. But my Grandparents were. When I stayed with them during hot summer vacation days, there was never a morning where the strong black coffee was not percolating, the oatmeal was not steamy, the fresh garden produce was not lining the entire breakfast bar, and the toast was not buttered with REAL butter. Anything else would be a travesty in the home of Charles and Joann Wadlow.

It is said that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I am not sure I buy into that. But I believe my Grandpa did. And he was a pretty wise man. He lived a healthy life but definitely knew how to have fun and enjoyed small indulgences fairly frequently. I miss him. I miss his stories and his gregarious laughter. I miss his borderline inappropriate jokes and his booming voice when answering Grandma from deep within his summer garden, outside their farmhouse kitchen. I miss his once curly hair when perms were all the rage  in the 80s. He and my Grandma both had perms, and we joked about whose curls were more tightly wound.

“Live a life worthy of writing about.”

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