Grandpa - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The spring days were spent in the garden, Grandpa and me. He planted his runner beans, courgettes and more. There were the days of bright sunshine, blue skies that sung of the summer to come; there were the days of cloud-filtered rays, the ones that made the world so cozy. There were the days it began to rain, and instead of dashing inside we stayed in the garden to dance, to taste that feast of water. That was my world, we two, happy with the earth, sunshine and rain.
Grandpa lived for music. I think it was the only thing that kept him sane after the war. He was a medic, he saw things no-one should ever. But when he played his cello the darkness went away and he could live again in the beautiful world he had inhabited as a child. He never spoke of the horrors he witnessed unless he could see a point to the tale, to educate, to honour the fallen. To recall was to re-live and avoided that as much as he could.
As Grampa hummed a tune on his oak rocking chair, the melody a quiet spring river, an enjoyable throng of his finest memories played in his tired mind.
When I describe Grandpa it is with sadness and pride. He was a man who made and kept friends with ease. He was generous natured, finding the best in people. He was a great listener rather than a speaker and made a life for himself in retirement between his bowls club and his garden. He was successful at whatever he turned his hand to because he knew how to be dedicated, persistent, rigorous. After a life in an orphanage and then in the army, I can only marvel at how well Grandpa did with his life.
Grandpa was a cantankerous old git. He picked fights and squabbled over the cost of peanut butter in the supermarket. But the day the gang came knocking he was priceless. Anyone in their right mind would have cowered behind the couch and pray a Molotov cocktail didn't slide through the letterbox. Grandpa pulled himself up to his full five foot four and a half inches and went digging under his bed. I thought for sure he'd gone to hide and left me to face them. But then he charged through with some antique firearm pushing me to one side. Then he opened the door and let out a blood curdling scream. Those six foot tall muscle heads crapped themselves before they could reach for their blades. Grandpa fired the gun in the air to prove it still worked then he charged at them. They scattered. He fired shot after shot on their heels striking the tarmac. Then he turned with a sly grin, "Those bastards aren't getting my grandson."
Grandpa lived in the moment. His past was full of the worst memories any life can offer - war and loss. His future was short, the doctors had told him that much. So he lived every day as a wonderful gift, not counting down but counting up. Every day was something extra he'd never been owed but given. I think that's why he lasted so long and why that old wrinkled smile was never far from his craggy face.
In appearance Jeff was nothing special, but when it he opened his mouth, it was like hearing a bird sing for the first time. He was old and his deep wrinkles seemed to carve a map of his life on his still agile and mobile facial features. His twinkling eyes were framed by thick white eyebrows and on his stubbled chin were white whiskers. His bright blue eyes shone in the bright day light as his few dazzling teeth shone with a fresh white gleam.
Iron grey face weathered and craggy as a cliff, steel grey eyes as lifeless as two marbles set in wrinkled tired sockets. He feins a soft smile that belies the grief he holds inside. King of routine, regimented as a soldier, careful, tidy, shrewd, gentle natured.
Widower, chain smoker, tinkers with old cars, gnarled greasy hands, eats days old take out for breakfast, goes to church on a Sunday, swears like a trooper, fixes neighbours cars for free, member of neighbourhood watch, paranoid about burglars, has thick bolts fitted to the top and bottom of his doors, sits in a tree on summer nights looking out for burglars, loves coffee and biscuits, keeps a German Shepard dog and spoils it with bacon treats.
Ex-army vet, always smartly dressed, listens to wireless, walks along seafront with friends, is the secretary of the local bowls club, keeps a rose garden, eats a low cholesterol diet, tidy, positive outlook on life, can't stand his wife's friends, thinks grandchildren are OK in small doses.