My grandfather was a character...
cheeky and fun.
I'm so lucky that every memory I have of him
is a happy one.
When I first remember getting to know him, he was a bit scary. I'm not even sure why. I guess - very simply, he was a stranger.
As an adult, I read through his diaries...
kept religiously, over the years.
Reading the first few pages felt a little rude -
a little... intrusive.
Soon, I was swept up in the routines of his life, the casual funny comments thrown in amongst the planting of tomatoes and the picking of beans.
It was surprising to see how he had written little things we had done - things that wouldn't seem to be of interest to him.
He fought to keep his drivers licence until the end - reminding me of that green Kingswood and the way he huddled over the steering wheel, pretending to speed through the town....
He was angry at his doctors for putting him on a diet. By the second day, he was starving and counting down the minutes until lunch! (Oh, nan's roast!)
He was just another guy...
But he was my grandfather.
His Irish blood coursed through him
- and every year...
without fail...
he wrote in his diary -
Pray for us, St Patrick.
He's not here to write it now....
So, I will, instead.
"Pray for us, St Patrick".
1 comment:
Very nice and oh so true.
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