My grandfather, John Smart, once told me that he considered himself the nut on the family tree and possibly out of step with the rest of the world. He then quickly assured me that he’s always been happy doing his own thing and does not regret the way he lived his life.
This is precisely why I’ve always admired the man so much.
He was born in Glasgow, Scotland in 1917.
In August, my family took a trip to his hometown.
The house he lived in is still standing.
A couple of blocks from his house, my nephew scattered some of his ashes in the river Clyde.
We took refuge from the chilly, wet, (typical) Scottish weather in a funky little bar and made a whisky toast in his honor.
I think he would approve.
But I still don’t like whisky.