Grandfather Stories
Cats: PR|
The inspiration for The Pledge came from stories my grandfather told me. His stories went far beyond life lessons and relating family history. They inspired me. They made me the person I am today. I have read a lot of stories, but for some reason, the stories that grandfathers tell us are the best.
Tell me your story. I will publish some of them into my newsletter. Others will be published into my blog. I’ll share your grandfather’s story with other people. Let me know what made the story so special. Share your pictures. Pictures of where your family came from. Pictures of you with your grandfather. But - no pictures that include people who have not given their permission - or children.
How to Submit: Submit your stories, no longer than 500 words as a comment on this post. I will chose stories to appear in my newsletter and post on some of my sites. Selected stories may include pictures and a link to your website. I will contact you via the contact form on your website.
March 11th, 2008 at 1:42 pm
My grandfather didn’t tell me his story, I discovered it through conversations not meant for me; the way I learned everything as a child.
Born in the East End of London, Archer Root and his two sisters were orphaned. The girls: both blonde and pretty, were adopted. He went to a Barnardo Home. Nine-year-old Archer didn’t have tram fare, so every Sunday, he walked across London to visit the girls. They stayed close until his death.
My mother was his eighth child, and raising a family of nine on a bricklayer’s wages in the nineteen twenties didn’t leave much time for nurture. Putting food on the table took every ounce of Archer’s energy. He wasn’t big and rough with calloused hands, as you would expect, but short and slight, with a soft voice which required concentration to hear.
A socialist to his core, Mother said he knew every word of ‘The Red Flag’, but I never heard him sing once. Every one of his children grew up taller than him, taught to tell the truth and believe in a days’ work for a day’s pay. Five of his six sons went to fight in the war, but they all came back, even the one reported killed in action. He walked through the door the same day the telegram came.
“Told yer the Huns couldn’t do for ‘im,” Grandad said, while Grandma sobbed into her son’s shoulder.
An uncle complained at dinner, once, ‘Isn’t it about time I got the first slice of the joint?’
Spread out before me an inch beneath my chin, that table looked huge and the enveloping silence threatened to suffocate us all. Then a spoon, dropped from nerveless fingers and tinkled against a glass. My mother’s hand froze above the vegetable dish. A cousin groaned for her father, a man well into his thirties.
I’m sure I heard him swallow as we waited.
Grandad’s expression didn’t change, but his knife slowed a little “Give the boy the first slice, Annie,” he said. “But just this once, mind.”
Fifteen people exhaled in unison and Grandma slapped the beef onto uncle’s plate with a scowl. It must have tasted like ash. We all watched him eat it.
I never felt special in his house, not as the third youngest of twenty grandchildren, although on Saturday afternoons he was mine for a while. It was then, he sat in his favourite chair and read the racing results, while I stood behind it and brushed his hair.
His most startling feature, it grew thick as rope and a bright, platinum blond. Soft and warm in my fingers, it gleamed almost silver in the firelight from the hearth in their tiny parlour.
I never tired of my self imposed task, although finally my grandmother would say with a sigh, ‘That’s enough now, dear.’
Without fail, Grandad’s hand would cover mine and he’d say gently, ‘Leave her be.’
He never told me stories, but from him I learned that true strength has nothing to do with physical size; that you don’t need to shout to be heard. Respect is everything and if you don’t work, you don’t get to eat. Nor should you expect to. Not a bad legacy really from an East End orphan.
May 22nd, 2008 at 8:07 pm
I wish my grandfather had been able to tell me his stories. He passed away when I was 22 and I never had the chance to get to know him as an adult.