OK, get a nice cup of tea, (this will be a long story) and gather 'round for the tale of “How I inherited the Family grenade.”

When my Great Aunt Evelyn died, my Father and I were named as the executors of the estate. And my Father decided that instead of just paying a lawyer to do all the paperwork, we would do it. My aunt, and her husband, a scandalous marriage if there ever was one according to my Grandmother, who had died 15 or so years earlier. And they never had children. And she thought of my Dad and us kids has “hers”. (My parents got lots and lots of interesting parenting advice from her as we grew up)

Anyway, my Father did most of the legal paper work for the state of South Dakota and my wife and I were mostly doing the house cleaning and inventorying of her possessions. My brother and sisters came out to help as they could and even some cousins drove out to assist on the weekends. It took most of a year to do everything and close the estate. So we cleaned and counted and dispersed most of her belongings to those that wanted or needed them. Her estate was small, mostly the house they had owned for decades, a car, a couple of bank accounts, plus a small life insurance policy. The house already had a buyer willing to pay market price and the car was given to a cousin that was in need of one.

So one fine fall weekend, my parents and my brother, his wife, one of my sisters, with me and my wife were there working on getting things tidied up. Everyone had stopped for a coffee break and were sitting at the kitchen table. I was working in the garage cleaning that mess up. My Great Uncle Jim had been in WW2 from quite early in the war. He was a waist gunner in a B17 bomber stationed in Alaska. And I was finding and sorting some boxes of old papers with a mix of army air force papers and other personal papers from over the years. And I thought I would look inside the old army duffle bag that hung on the back wall for years and years. There was something heavy at the bottom of it when I grabbed it. I expected a wrench or something. Instead, I found a handful of old .45ACP cartridges some fired, and some still loaded with WW2 head stamps and more army papers. And at the very bottom I found a WW2 grenade.

Now, I thought, this is interesting. At first, I figured it was a practice/dummy grenade. But those are painted a different color than real ones to prevent embarrassing accidents, this one was just green. And then I noticed it had the fuse safety still intact and the spoon and pin where also there. Even more interesting! So I sat there with this thing and debated what I should do next. I could call the police, but that would just end up with every bored cop within 100 miles, (this occurred in South Dakota), and a bomb squad with evacuations of the neighborhood and reporters and all the attending hassles and paperwork that go with it. This would screw up the whole weekend for sure. So I decided that I would just deal with it myself. Besides, it could be fun!

After pondering what I knew about WW2 US grenades, I knew that the body and fuses were always shipped separately and never assembled until they were issued for use. And they were also disassembled if they were just turned back in for storage. So I simply grabbed the fuse and unscrewed it from the body removing it safely. Honestly, that was the riskiest part of the process. I set the fuse on the bench and took the body over to the church dumpster next door, and tipped upside down and started shaking it. Granular powder started coming out as I shook it, and I also rapped it against the dumpster pull get it all out. When I determined it was empty, I went back into the garage, took the fuse outside, removed the safety wire and pulled the pin. The fuse lit and burned lustily. I then reassembled the grenade.

And being the evil bastid that I am, I took the grenade into the house, set it in the middle of the table and said “Look what I found!” The stunned silence and shocked faces was everything I had hoped for. When my dad was able to speak, he asked if it was safe, I told him it is now. I had emptied it and fired the fuse. Everyone then started to relax a bit.

My mother, sister, and my wife where, let’s just say, somewhat put out and had a lot to say about the whole thing. None of them very happy about the whole process. I explained why I didn’t call the police about it, and my dad and my brother both understood the reasoning and begrudgingly went with it. But my wife, sister, and mother were having none it. They soon just ran out of steam when they saw I was quite satisfied with myself and the outcome.

That grenade sat in my home office for years on a shelf. Our oldest Grandson now has possession of it since he played with it a lot growing up. Grandma just rolled her eyes when I gave it to him.

And that is the story of “How I inherited the Family Grenade.”

*****The china cabinet and set of china were a payback from my wife.