Lakes, Tractors And Senility Don't Mix

We Wardwells seem to be creatures of the Lake. For the past three generations, even further in some cases, our existence has seemed to center around Sackets Harbor on Lake Ontario.

While this is generally considered a good thing, I have noticed a decidedly Kennedy-esque brand of lunacy in the family. Sackets appears to be our own personal little Martha's Vineyard, with all the bad decisions and rowdy behavior that goes along with that image.

This story particularly entails my grandfather, myself and my brother, Noah. Noah and I are a lot alike, so I'll kill two birds with one stone to save some breath. For the most part we're interested in nerd games, music, and girls in that order. Pretty much your typical apathetic fringe kids. Never popular in high school but better off for precisely that reason. While we dearly love my grandparents, living with them for a while had come to make us pretty jaded to the routine that was expected of us.

My grandmother would routinely call us up to meet people she barely knew, and we would never meet again. Typical "look how cute he is!" kind of stuff. She means well, but it's the general consensus that's she's a Pollyanna personality. My grandfather's a whole other ball of wax entirely. He's perfectly happy to never say more than three words to you, long as you leave him to his own devices. He is also very much interested in buying things from junkyards or yardsales that don't work. Normal people would fix these broken purchases, but my grandfather seemed content to merely own them. Silently rusting away in the back yard.

My grandfather is quite proud of his tragic collection, and the moving and futile repair of such items is a regular venture of his.