My Grampie was an islander. Islanders are insular, even xenophobic people. He worked very hard in tough times, and froze an eye while caught at sea in a storm.
My Grammie married him when she was 17. I don’t think she ever loved him. But that’s a story for another day.
He, being from an island in the Bay of Fundy, didn’t have overly developed social skills.
I, being a child, didn’t recognize how inappropriate he was by times.
He once assured me that he could blow smoke out his backside.
Grampie: “You don’t believe me?”
Witchypoo: “Grampie, I don’t think anybody can do that.”
Grampie: “Well, I can show you the nicotine stains on my drawers.”
Strange sense of humour, Grampie had.