O. G., by guest author, John Heinen

Grandpa Barnard died in 1958, while residing in an assisted-living facility on Hurley Way, less than a mile from the home he'd built for himself and his wife, Zell, in Sierra Oaks. He was a handsome man, very funny, feisty, and seemed always to have a devilish smile on his face. As an architect and builder, he put up many dozens of homes in and around Sacramento. In his younger years, he was a prize fighter. He taught me how to box. Actually, what he taught me was: if you spar with an ex-prize fighter, expect to get bruised. My Dad & I paid him regular visits and while they talked I would tidy up his apartment. One day he said to Dad, "Share my last bottle, Bill," and poured the last two drinks from a half-pint bottle of bourbon. As I tossed the empty bottle into the trash, I noticed many more half-pint bottles. Grandpa was an  enthusiastic drinker, so why would he buy small bottles, when larger bottles would save a lot of money? Years later, I figured it out.  His wife and his old pals were gone. A small bottle of bourbon went quick, and that meant he'd have to walk over to the market fairly often for another, which created opportunities to schmooze with the staff and talk with any customers who might be in the mood to chat. He needed human contact, as we all do, and he'd found a simple way to get it on a regular basis. About he title, O.G.: When my cousins and I were little, we'd hear our parents call Grandpa "Ohgee". We thought it was a meaningless nickname. When we were older we learned that O.G. stood for "Old Goat".  But "O.G."  was always said with good humor and affection, because everyone loved that old goat.