My maternal grandfather turned 90 last week, and attending his birthday celebration was one of the highlights of our family vacation.

His name is Frank, and pretty much everyone calls him that. He's Frank. Just Frank.

The name fits him too–he doesn't mince words, he tells it like it is. No beating around the bush with him.

I adore him.

He's 90 years old, and acts like he's 50. A very spry, strong, sharp 50. The man lives alone (my grandmother is in a nursing home nearby) in the very northernmost part of the U.P. where they get feet upon feet of snow every winter.

He hunts deer, elk, moose and bear (some in his backyard, which consists of 40 acres that back up to the Hiawatha National Forest). He ice fishes (and has been known to get blown across Lake Superior in his ice shanty). He makes the family sauerkraut recipe when his daughters (and granddaughter) bully him into it. He smokes fish (even set the woods on fire about two weeks ago, but was able to put it out immediately).

He gripes and bitches and has an opinion about everything. He can still fix anything on an automobile, even though the technology has gone full circle and back again since his retirement.

Actually, he can fix or build pretty much anything. 

His mind is as sharp as a tack–he remembers everyone and everything. The first thing he said to me after one of the big knock-the-wind-out-of-you hugs he's famous for was, "Why the hell are you writing about vampires? Why don't you write about something interesting? Like me."

His voice is as booming and gruff as I remember it, and as much as he likes to razz, he can take it. I told him (here's a pic of me stating my case) that I wrote about a woman who was a hunter–just like him–only she hunts vampires. And would he give me some pointers?

I've heard stories upon stories about my grandpa over the years, but it was so much fun to sit around and hear my mom and aunts and uncles and cousins tell them, one after the other.

Over and over, the stories depict a man larger than life, stronger than a Venator, with a stubborn, crusty exterior and a heart of gold.

Frank came from a large, poor family from the "wrong" side of the tracks. He was the second oldest child of a farmer and his wife, and they scraped to make ends meet–so he worked hard from the very beginning.

My aunt tells the story of when he came down from up north to help her and her husband put up a pole barn. He was coming down only for the weekend, and knowing Frank and his ways, she was on the phone to the supplier telling them they needed to get all the parts–including the trusses–there by Friday.

The supplier told her there was no way they'd be ready for the trusses for a week, but, knowing Frank, my aunt insisted that they get them delivered. She knew that not only would they get to them (and they did, of course) but that she didn't want to suffer the Wrath of Frank if things weren't prepared and ready to go.

They got the entire pole barn up in one weekend, during which time my grandfather was lifting one of those corrugated steel pieces and it slipped wrong and sliced up and under the uppermost skin of his hand, lifting a whole layer of flesh right up.

What did Frank do? Bandaged the "g-d-mn thing" up and kept right on working–refused to let anyone see to it, go to the Emergency Room, or take a break.

That's my grandpa.

He came down from up north another time and built the large Colonial style house (five bedrooms, two and a half baths, living, dining, & family rooms, etc.) that I grew up in, in two weeks. Two weeks. My dad helped.

More stories abound, about his unusual stamina and strength–I wish I could recount them here, but alas, this entry is getting too long as it is, but I'll leave you with this: from my earliest years, I remember our trips up north to my grandparents' house (a ten hour drive) and seeing my grandma and grandpa for the first time each summer.

My grandpa, who always has been since I can remember, would be wearing the same clothes you see in the picture: his green shirt and matching dungarees. He's been wearing those everyday for seventy years, I venture to say. The only variation is camouflage or orange hunting clothes that go over the greens.

Anyway, he'd gather us up in these huge, strong hugs, and then sit us on his knees and bounce us around like crazy. Then he'd let us slip off and catch us between his knees until we begged to let him go.

I remember meals at Grandpa's house. He was a hunter and he was always trying to put meat on my bones (at least back then he was. Now he doesn't say that anymore. I wonder why.) with things like pickled deer heart, moose burgers, elk steaks, rabbit, etc.

He'd stab a big piece of game and slap it on our plates and tell us to "Eat up! Don't you want to grow big and strong like Grandpa?"

At which point, we'd each be terrified that we'd actually have to choke it down. (My mom usually rescued us. Eventually.)

And to this day, every night, even at deer camp, my grandpa gets on his knees and says his prayers. The other hunters he goes with (my uncles and cousins) can hear him saying them in his room, every night. 

Part of me wishes I knew what he was praying for, at 90 years old.

The other part of me already knows.