My mother’s father was born in North Kingstown, Rhode Island in 1914 and lived in the same house his entire life. In 2017, he had a minor stroke and it was then decided that I would move in. The plan was that I would handle the riskier tasks, such as walking to the mailbox or bringing the laundry to the basement. I would also drive him places. Thus began my comical misadventures of living with a man who had lived in the same town for more than a century and yet didn’t know what smores were, who had a specific place for everything but didn’t always remember where it was, who misheard absolutely everything, and who rarely threw anything away. I’d like to say I learned a lot, but I probably didn’t.