We were walking back to the condo from the community pool where my grandfather was undoubtedly presenting us to his bingo buddies as if we were royalty.

He'd stand between my brother and me and place a gentle hand on our freshly sunburned shoulders.

"These , are my boys."

I was 10, my brother 12.

"Here for a week," he'd boast to a gruff group of cigar-smoking 70-year-olds playing billiards in white loafers, plaid pants and large gold Chai medallions resting in nests of grey chest hair.

Pop-pop was comfortable in the background. He was star quality amongst his friends, but preferred a minor role. He was a thinker; a quiet observer who'd yield a modest smile when his presence caused schools of synchronized swimmers to stop and shout his name. He was a man of few words. But, not when we were in town.

"These , are my boys," he'd repeat again to a trio of elderly ladies in gold-sequined leotards and top hats, taking "five" from rehearsals of the Oriole Gardens Choral Group production of A Chorus Line.

"Oh, such punims! Enjoying Florida, boys?" Her mascara was lapped on thick and black and she smelled like powder. I leaned in and offered my punim (face) for its fourth squeezing of the day. At 10, I was already a veteran visitor of the senior community. I understood the protocol.

"Isn't this weather bee-you-tee-ful?"

The walk back to my grandparents' condo was a short one. 10 minutes tops. 15 if we'd stop to inspect a fallen coconut from the many palm trees along the way or a tan lizard scuttling across an air conditioning unit. It was the three of us, my grandfather, my brother and me. We'd bypass the hot asphalt, instead taking a shortcut through the white cookie-cutter condos - opting for the sharp blades of grass on our bare feet.

We were halfway home when it happened. Of course we didn't know at the time. Well, not at first. At first, Pop-pop was just being funny. Really funny. Funnier than we had ever seen him.

But even as children, we knew something was wrong. He took a turn beyond silly. It wasn't Pop-pop. We watched as his age regressed before our eyes. He became a stumbling, drunken man of 20. Seconds later he was our peer at 10 years old, laughing at the same stupid things we laughed at. Soon he was a babbling toddler, barely able to tell us "I, need, juice."

We did manage to get him home. Soon after gulping a glass of orange juice, our grandfather returned.

The guest bathroom was wallpapered with Toulouse-Lautrec's images of the Moulin Rouge. Free for our viewing pleasure was a cornucopia of Playboy magazines. This was heaven on Earth for a boy my age. Our yearly trips to Florida didn't need to include a trip to Disney. I had the guest bathroom. An orgy of glossy-paged beauties chronologically arranged from June 1979 to April 1980 - nicely complimenting the French brothels depicted on the walls. My showers averaged 93 minutes. Brushing teeth - half an hour. Morning whizz - a solid 48 minutes.

This is where my grandfather sat every morning with the door slightly ajar as he inserted his insulin-filled needle into what little flesh he could pinch on his thigh or belly. "Ouch!" he'd say each time. When he noticed his curious grandkids peeking in from the hallway, he'd assure us it didn't hurt. But it did. It always did, I later learned.

He was meticulous in his diabetes management and never "cheated" with real sugar, as the mindset would have been back then. On a small piece of paper he drew four quadrants - left belly, right belly, left thigh, right thigh. He checked off each location so that he could rotate every four days.

No one really knew when his blood sugar was high, but there were signs. Sudden flare-ups in his temper were all more shocking when it came from Pop-pop, whose natural demeanor was warm and easygoing.

When under assault from my grandmother to eat something, he'd fire back at her in French - a language that fascinated him. And one my grandmother didn't understand.

"Je suis très bien, Blondie. Laissez-moi etre!" (I'm fine, Blondie. Let me be!)

Pop-pop died two weeks before his 85th birthday on November 24, 1994; Thanksgiving Day. Eight years later we decided that if the baby floating around in Susanne's belly was a boy, he would share Pop-pop's name. What we never fathomed though was that he'd also share his disease.

He'd be Charlie.