Grandpa Woodruff—because every family needs that one guy who survived a war and decided the logical follow-up was teaching you how to shoot woodland creatures while telling stories that make you question humanity.
You see, Grandpa fought in the Korean War, which he always described as “the freezing hell nobody remembers,” and let me tell you, he was obsessed with every single detail. Every single gunshot, every frostbitten toe, every mountain that felt like it was personally trying to murder him.
We were sitting in the Jeep Cherokee—that legendary relic of metal and engine oil that smelled like a garage apocalypse—bouncing along pothole city when Grandpa started.
“You know, Will,” he began, voice already thick with gravitas, “when we were in Korea, it wasn’t ducks we were shooting at.”
