Know The Signs: How to tell if your grandparent has become an antifa agent

From the Washington Post, by Alexandra Petri:

Buffalo protester shoved by Police could be an ANTIFA provocateur. 75 year old Martin Gugino was pushed away after appearing to scan police communications in order to black out the equipment. @OANN I watched, he fell harder than was pushed. Was aiming scanner. Could be a set up?

— President Trump on Twitter

KNOW THE SIGNS: HOW TO TELL IF YOUR GRANDPARENT HAS BECOME AN ANTIFA AGENT

For your birthday, she knits you an unwanted scarf. To be used as a balaclava?

She belongs to a decentralized group with no leadership structure that claims to be discussing a “book,” but no one ever reads the book and all they seem to do is drink wine.

Is always talking on the phone with an “aunt” you have never actually met in person. Aunt TIFA????

Always walking into rooms and claiming not to know why he walked into the room. Likely.

He “trips” over and breaks your child’s Lego police station when walking through the living room in the dark.

Total and bewildering lack of nostalgia for good old days.

Gathers with loose-knit, disorderly group of figures you have never met to play “mah-jongg,” governed by mysterious “rule cards” issued annually from a nebulous central authority.

Suddenly, for no reason, will appear or pretend to be asleep.

Insists on producing container of nuts whenever there is company. Why? Code of some kind?

Carries peppermints (chemical irritant?) in purse at all times.

Is taking Centrum Silver. But for what reason? Surely to build up strength for the coming confrontation.

Keeps forwarding you what appear on the surface to be emails of jokes someone has typed out from a Reader’s Digest; claims to think you would “enjoy”; must be some sort of recruitment or propaganda or hidden message.

Hired a clown for your child’s birthday — part of the Juggalo command structure?

Big tin of Christmas popcorn mysteriously replenishes itself. WHO IS HELPING?!

You gave her a Precious Moments figurine of a law enforcement officer, but she hasn’t displayed it.

Remembers things from the past in incredible, exhausting detail, but recent ones only sporadically? Cover of some kind.

She claims not to know how to use her phone, yet always appears upside-down on FaceTime, which should be impossible without hacking capabilities.

If he is to be believed, he spends hours playing bridge.

He is walking non-threateningly at a public protest.

Looks suspect.

Immigrants: Part Deux

Here are a few more photos to go along with my original post “We Are All Immigrants.” 

This slightly unhappy child is my Grandfather, Harold, when he must have been around 5 or 6 (I'm guessing). He was born in 1892 and little boys didn't get their first haircut until much later in those days. He's wearing his "Little Lord Fauntleroy" suit and is definitely not pleased with the whole thing. I have seen that expression on my daughter's face many, many times when she was little!

This is a lock of Harold's hair from when the golden curls were finally cut off! My mother had kept and treasured it and a few years ago gave it to me at Christmas time, along with one of the many little dolls my grandmother had made during her years as an invalid. The doll measures just barely 2" in length (not counting the the ribbon she's suspended from.) This scan doesn't do justice to the handiwork that went into her creation. The stitches are very tiny, and so is the beadwork. I have both keepsakes in the same box they came in when my mother gave them to me. Just a little something tangible from Grandma and Grandpa...

This was my Dad, Jack, when he was probably about the same age as my Grandfather in the photo above. No Fauntleroy suit for little boys in this era. It's replaced by a sailor suit, making the posing experience much more comfortable, as evidenced by Dad's sweet smile.

I find this photo particularly poignant. I managed to date it to Dec. 25, 1942 from the headline on the newspaper my Dad is reading. He would be going into the Coast Guard soon to serve during WWII. He had the opportunity to get a job at a factory that supplied the war effort and essentially sit out the war safely at home, but he wouldn't do it. He didn't feel he could face his children if he didn't "do his part." My Mother (on the right) is about 2 or 3 months pregnant with my older brother. My Grandmother is on the left, lost in thought. This scene could be a Norman Rockwell painting.

And here we have little ol' me! At least I had enough hair here to support a ribbon. My mother used to Scotch Tape a bow to my head when I was first born because I had so little hair...LOL! So this baby is going to be 63 this week, huh...