Again with this?

Today is my grandfather's birthday. (There are many Sagittarii in my family.) He would have been 99, but he died 10 years ago. When I was little, I always used to ask him what he wanted to do for his 100th birthday. He was old, you see. He laughed and said he wasn't going to worry about it unless it seemed imminent.

So, I'm 24 now, right? Or, as my grandfather would say, I'm in my 25th year. A few weeks ago, I found some things out about my grandfather: 1. His first name. 2. He served in the army.

Let's get back to that first one. I always thought my grandfather's name was Gerard. Turns out it's Thomas. Gerard was his middle name, and when he started school, he decided he liked it better, and went by such. According to some letters I found, his friends called him Gerry. I'm mildly freaked out by this news. (Do you see? Do you see how going by your middle name screws with people? Do you see?) Of course, when I think about it, it doesn't exactly break a pattern. You see, I didn't learn that my grandfather's name was Gerard until I was about ... oh, maybe 7? You see, up until then, I thought his name was Bud.

Apparently, it's the thing in Irish families to call a young man Bud, or Buddy, or some variant thereof. My grandfather was nothing if not Irish. Unless it was a Catholic, but that's the same thing. Or a Democrat. Anyway, he was Bud to his sisters and to his mother. I have no idea when or how I picked this up as a wee thing: my grandmother never called him that, nor did his children or my sisters. Somehow, though, he was my Grandpa Bud.

I also call my sister Bud. That's a completely different story, which, surprisingly, has nothing to do with my grandfather. At least I don't think. My sister loved my grandfather to pieces, and he loved her likewise. We've determined that this may or may not have something to do with the fact that she looks exactly, eerily like his mother. We have a picture of his mother, or rather, my sister does. We've got several people convinced that it actually is my sister, and that she went down the shore and had one of those Olde Timey pictures taken. Not the case.

When my grandfather got pneumonia, my sister went to see him every day. She was the one who told him, when the holidays were over, that it was alright for him to go. She was the last one of us to see him alive. It is entirely fitting that she is now Bud.

Of course, she calls me Bud, too.