The year is 1932. An older, well groomed man, popularly known as Grandpa, is an introverted fella, with no children or grands of his own, and lives in a condo in the heart of Chicago. Every day, he wakes up, does the 3 s's, and drives his Cadillac V-16 over to a park on the other side of town. He is widely known for his stories that he has nobody to tell them to, and always brings a loaf of bread and some jam for himself and any animals that would approach him. Once in a while, people surround him as he mumbles stories from his childhood, eager to listen to the wisdom that this man possesses. He's not the smoking kind, but he's kind enough to keep a box of smokes for anyone that wanted one, and would even light it for them.

Though slightly exaggerated, folks enjoyed his tales, and he had so many that he never told the same one twice, nor did he wear the same outfit twice. He must have owned at least 100 suits, all different colors and styles. He loved children, and the windy city.

It all started 50 years ago. He began, with a smile. I was 12. My father was working as a banker, so my family lived comfortably. It was me, my 2 older brothers, a younger sister, papa and mama. I loved them. Still do. I visit their grave every now and then. I'm the only one alive, as my older brothers were shot on the street, and my sister died of polio. Mama and papa lived to the ripe old age of 60. Sad to say, I've outlived them, fucking natural causes...

Sniffling and trying to hold back tears, he continued. In his hand, a picture of his family in an old pure gold locket that his sister left to him in a will. She had been sick for quite some time, but he tried hard to spare too many gory details.

Anyway, where was I? Oh right. My family. I'm the only living being of them. We were a drug pushing family, and my father disciplined us to keep quiet about it. Us kids went to school, and we walked just like the other kids in my neighborhood. 15 miles, each way. Well...maybe not 15, but it seemed like it. The reality was maybe 2, but that was long enough for us. A one-room school with maybe 20 kids. That was a lot back then, and it still is today, I think. Why, if it wasn't for my late wife dying of polio, as well as my sister, I might have kids to speak of.

Again, the tears, this time bigger and more obvious. Grandpa wiped them away, and continued.

Sorry, allergies. He smiled again. Anyway, my father was also a veteran of the French Civil War, and lucky to have lived as long as he did. Mama took care of us most of the time, and she was very good at it. We moved to the Windy City in 1872. I was 2 years old then, and had very little idea of what was going on....

Grandpa slowly dozed off, and remained asleep for a good hour or so. By the time he woke up to finish the story, there was nobody around to listen. The people that were listening walked off, but were eager to see him again, and couldn't wait to hear the rest of the story, if he could remember it. He then stepped into his car, and drove home.

Grandpa always thought of each day as a new beginning, but knew in the back of his mind that there wasn't too many of those beginnings left. After doing his morning routine, he went back to the park. The birds were chirping and the sun was shining. Perfect, he thought, except today there weren't quite as many people, or birds to give bread to. He would just mumble and people would gather to listen. He didn't have to say anything to anyone, as he simply wasn't that way. He thought of himself as blessed, even if just for another day above ground.

My daddy fought and my mama cooked and cleaned. We hadn't a care in the world back then. Yes, sirree. I gathered wood for the fire, and my brothers would help daddy clean guns. Sis helped mama in the house. I sure do miss mama's cookin'. That buffalo was to die for. We had enough to last all winter, and many more, we did...

He smiled, with a tear in his eye and a hunger in his stomach, he continued while spreading some jam onto a slice of bread.

Hunting was a...a favorite past time. Now it's those damned cubs. Hadn't won a series since 1908. I'm still rootin'...but I curse every time that Vince Barton strikes out. Handsome young fella, can't swing for shit though. Made for pitchin' and bitchin', that one. Yessir.

With that last statement, he passed out yet again. People left, but he didn't care. He grew more and more tired with each passing day. A bird stole his bread and jam before he had a chance to eat it.