My grandfather passed away when I was fourteen years old. At the time, my family and grandparents lived in Alameda, California—far from Hotchkiss, Colorado, the place my grandpa called home. Despite the miles that separated him from his home, he always made his hometown come alive. And as always, I miss my ornery cowboy grandpa.

The features I remember most about him were his sheer size and presence. He was a large man—six feet or more in all directions, with hands that seemed capable of moving mountains and a deep, booming voice that could command a room. He dressed in cowboy gear every single day: a wide-brimmed straw hat, a crisp western shirt, a bolo tie, and well-worn cowboy boots. To me, he was the definition of a real cowboy, and I adored him for it.

Though rough around the edges, Grandpa had a soft spot for babies and grandkids. When we were small, he would sometimes watch us for my mom, Dotty. However, one task made him uneasy—diaper changes. He’d carefully remove the offensive item, but when it came time to secure a fresh diaper, he hesitated, afraid he’d accidentally poke the little one with a diaper pin. So, in true Grandpa fashion, he devised a creative solution—he’d layer two or three pairs of training pants on the baby and cover the whole thing with plastic pants. Problem solved! Grandpa always had a way of figuring things out in his own unconventional style.

Every visit to Grandpa’s house followed a familiar, heartwarming pattern. He’d greet us with tight hugs, scratchy kisses, deep laughter, and, without fail, a little bit of money, always in that order. Before we left, he made sure we had some change jingling in our pockets. Then, in his raspy, affectionate “baby” voice, he’d smile and say, “You’re a damn cute kid.” But we all knew what was coming next. Before we could escape, he’d reach out and pinch our cheeks, hard. We tried dodging him over the years, but it was no use; Grandpa was quick. To this day, I swear that’s why we all have chipmunk cheeks; it was Grandpa’s doing.

For a while, Grandpa had an old green Jeep, and he loved taking it for a spin. The problem? He drove that thing like he was in a race. He’d tear out of the driveway, speed through the streets, and zip through parking lots as if they were his personal obstacle course. Nowhere was safe when Grandpa was behind the wheel.

My parents made us promise—repeatedly—that we would never, ever go anywhere with Grandpa when he was driving. But, of course, we were kids, and we learned early on that “what happens at Grandma and Grandpa’s, stays at Grandma and Grandpa’s.” We had so many heart-pounding adventures in that Jeep over the years. And, somehow, we never got caught.

Still, my sweet Grandma worried endlessly that my parents would find out, fearing it would put an end to our sleepovers. But she needn’t have worried—nothing could have kept us from spending time with our grandparents. Those visits were a huge part of my childhood, filled with stories, laughter, and just the right amount of mischief.

Looking back, I treasure those memories—Grandpa’s booming voice spinning tales of the ranch, the family, the horses, and the sheep he loved so much. I miss that man more than words can say. What I wouldn’t give to hear him say, just one more time, “Damn cute kid,” followed by that familiar pinch to my cheeks.

You know, I guess I kinda like my chipmunk cheeks now.