My grandfather wrote this in 1993, fifty years after his high school graduation. My grandmother, parents, siblings, and I (and later, our incredibly patient spouses), heard the story countless times. So I thought I'd share. He wrote this on his trusty typewriter in his home office, the same typewriter that lived next to the stack of Tastycake chocolate cupcake wrappers (he was diabetic).
He was irreplaceable: one of the kindest, wittiest, hardest-working and most honest men I've ever known. He often told me his gallbladder surgery scar was from a Japanese bullet in World War II (he was a radioman on a submarine in the Atlantic).