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In this episode of 7 Minute Stories, Aaron takes listeners back to one unforgettable day at his Grandpa Joe’s house. From a roadside McMuffin breakfast and legendary Air Force fight story, to stacks of bargain-bin movies, tuna sandwiches on rye, and homemade pasta and meatballs—every detail becomes a core memory worth holding onto. Through his grandfather’s wisdom and humor, Aaron reminds us that even in life’s hardest moments, there are anchors—memories that keep us steady and remind us of who we are.
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The Team:
Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
When things go sideways and life gets tough, we all need a memory to hang onto—something to anchor us. Maybe it’s a moment, maybe it’s a perfect day. I’ve got a bunch of those, and today I’m going to share one of my favorites.
It may remind you of one of your own core memories that you can return to when you need it. So let’s take a trip to my Grandpa Joe’s house.
It starts with a morning pickup. He pulls up early, I hop in the car, and he’s grinning ear to ear. He hands me a sausage, egg, and cheese McMuffin.
“Are you serious, Grandpa?”
He just laughs and says, “You need it for the road. You need your strength.”
We’re driving—forty-five minutes east of Cleveland. Plenty of time for him to spin a yarn. Over the years, he told me hundreds of stories. And that day, he told me one of my favorites.
He takes me back to when he was an Air Force cadet at a military dance. There was this elegant young woman he wanted to ask to dance. But another cadet—backed up by his buddies—had the same idea.
So when my grandfather reached out his hand to ask her, the guy and his friends cut him off. Things escalated. They ended up outside in the parking lot. My grandpa was alone. The other guy had backup, and he looked like he knew how to fight.
First jab—boom. Right to my grandfather’s face. He didn’t go down.
Second jab—boom. Another hit, and still he stayed up.
Then a hook came in. My grandpa dipped his head at the last second, and the punch landed square on the top of his skull. Suddenly, the guy screamed out in pain. My grandfather was dazed, but when he looked up, he saw his opponent on the ground, surrounded by his friends.
Turns out the guy broke his hand on my grandpa’s head. That’s how my grandfather won the fight—and yes, he got the dance. Later, he learned that the guy he beat was a Golden Gloves champion from Youngstown, Ohio.
Every time my grandpa told the story, he’d end with the same advice: “First, use your head. Then, if you must, use your fists. But if you do—don’t forget to use your head.”
By the time the story was over, we were nearly at his house. But first, we’d stop at Bernie Schulman’s—a run-down drugstore with a wall of cheap movies. DVDs, VHS, all under ninety-nine cents.
“Go ahead,” he’d say. “Pick ten for the weekend.”
It felt like winning the lottery. I’d load up on Scorsese, Tarantino, Schwarzenegger, Stallone, gangster movies, classics—a crash course in cinema.
When we finally got to the house, my grandmother welcomed me with a hug and a kiss. She had me sit at the kitchen counter while she made her specialty: tuna fish sandwiches on toasted rye bread. Cold, creamy tuna with just the right crunch of celery, perfectly paired with the warm bread.
There was also a plate of Italian meats and cheeses, olives, and of course, pasta and meatballs simmering on the stove for dinner. I can still see her smile through the steam rising from the pan. I remember telling myself in that moment: Don’t forget this. This is one of the best days of your life. Hold onto it.
At halftime of the Ohio State game, my grandpa would insist we get some exercise. He’d throw on his bright red sweatsuit, I’d put on my purple one, and we’d walk the neighborhood, talking about life.
One day, I asked him to tell me another story. He told me about the Great Depression. How sometimes his father would give him fifteen cents to buy graham crackers for him and his sister.
One day, he opened the box and found it filled with ants. Everything ruined—except for one tiny sliver of a cracker. He broke it in half, shared it with his sister, and told me it was the best graham cracker he ever ate.
I laughed and said, “Grandpa, that’s a terrible story! You lost almost all the graham crackers.”
He shook his head and said, “The gift was that I had one. And I could always dream that one day, I’d get a whole box to myself.”
Then he winked at me. And sure enough—his pantry was always filled with graham crackers.
Back at the house, before dinner and movies, Grandpa had me do one more thing. He’d bring out speeches from his old marketing meetings at East Ohio Gas and have me recite them, line by line. Memorize them. Perform them.
“Every so often,” he said, “you’ll get a moment to connect with people. It could be in a meeting, on a stage, on the radio, or in your writing. When that moment comes, don’t miss it. Let people know they’re not alone. That’s what connects us. And if just one person feels that connection—you’re serving your purpose.”
So here I am. And here you are. And that memory—that day—is still with me. A reminder that no matter what you’re going through, there’s always a moment like that waiting for you. And this too shall pass.
