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We buried my grandfather today. He was reposing Thursday night and yesterday, and then the funeral today. He's been buried ... I think four hours now.
*shakes head* Ah. I wanted to thank everyone who sent condolences. I haven't been able to respond the past few days, but I got them, and I thank you.
Thank you all.
Most of these last few days, in between greeting mourners, has been spent alternately crying and reminiscing. The latter of which involved perhaps a surprising amount of laughter. Granddad was like that, though. He was the oddest man, sometimes. He's probably responsible for at least a significant portion of my questionable sense of humour, and probably most of the family's as well. Heh. This was the man who gave us Christmas cake sandwiches, after all. (And sugar sandwiches, and cheese & jam sandwiches, and more or less anything handy that could be put between two slices of bread, whether it ought to be or not).
There's a standard saying in my family. When in doubt, blame granddad: it was probably his fault somewhere along the line. I'm pretty sure I've even done it online. I blame granddad for my love of mythology, since he gave me two books of it the stuff as a kid and trusted I'd know what to do with them. I blame granddad for my sense of humour, because god knows where else I could have got it (possibly from my dad, but his sense of humour is mostly granddad's fault too). I blame granddad for being able to climb trees, since most of my childhood was spent climbing the apple tree in his back yard - he let us try to build a treehouse in it once, despite the fact that no way in hell could that poor little tree support one and we were doomed to failure before we started. He just brought us out a ladder and some wood and told our parents that we'd figure it out eventually. (I can't remember if we did or not. I presume we did, since the tree is still standing even now).
The blame for my love of reading has to be split between granddad and mam, though, they both were responsible for that. Right up until ... well, until barely a few weeks ago, granddad was trying to push books out on us, everything from dictionaries to encyclopedias to thrillers to murder-mysteries to poetry. The two things he collected were books and music, I think, and he liked to pass them on to all and sundry. My ability to read in public, too, to stand in front of people and speak to them, my ability to do the job I'm doing now, even, that comes back to him and mam too. They taught me how to read in church, doing the readings in mass.
I read at his funeral today. I hope I did him proud.
He was a bizarre man, my granddad. He had this habit of randomly letting out a yell every time he thought things were getting too quiet. I swear, sitting vigil over him on Wednesday night, I was expecting him to do it again. I think I was half expecting him to do it right up until we lowered the coffin. It would have been like him. He also had a tendency to have really strange things in his pockets. We were remembering that, the four grandkids, over in the funeral home, and it turned out it wasn't just us. Everyone who knew him knew about the couple of dozen pockets he always had, and the random things that could come out of them. From tiny things like ancient sweets and random coinage, to cutlery (you should always have a fork in your pocket for emergencies) and fuses and, on one memorable occasion, a small saw.
I'm not joking. Although there was a bit of serendipity involved in that one. He was walking home one evening after having done some repair work on his sister's house, when he passed a couple of mates of his doing a bit of similar work. Knowing about him and his pockets, apparently they jokingly asking him if he had a saw handy. He paused for a minute, I've no idea what he was thinking, and then he actually reached into his coat and pulled out a saw. "I don't have a proper saw, but do you think a handsaw would do?" Apparently their faces were something to behold. *grins crookedly*
He was a hell of a man. He was ... he was such a huge part of my life, granddad. I blame him for one hell of a lot of my foibles and my talents, and I think I thank him for every one of them. He was one of those rocks you raise yourself on, and I hope that wherever he is, he's back with the woman he loved, and doing the things that mattered to him.
Goodbye and good luck, granddad. Slán abhaile.
There's a standard saying in my family. When in doubt, blame granddad: it was probably his fault somewhere along the line. I'm pretty sure I've even done it online. I blame granddad for my love of mythology, since he gave me two books of it the stuff as a kid and trusted I'd know what to do with them. I blame granddad for my sense of humour, because god knows where else I could have got it (possibly from my dad, but his sense of humour is mostly granddad's fault too). I blame granddad for being able to climb trees, since most of my childhood was spent climbing the apple tree in his back yard - he let us try to build a treehouse in it once, despite the fact that no way in hell could that poor little tree support one and we were doomed to failure before we started. He just brought us out a ladder and some wood and told our parents that we'd figure it out eventually. (I can't remember if we did or not. I presume we did, since the tree is still standing even now).
The blame for my love of reading has to be split between granddad and mam, though, they both were responsible for that. Right up until ... well, until barely a few weeks ago, granddad was trying to push books out on us, everything from dictionaries to encyclopedias to thrillers to murder-mysteries to poetry. The two things he collected were books and music, I think, and he liked to pass them on to all and sundry. My ability to read in public, too, to stand in front of people and speak to them, my ability to do the job I'm doing now, even, that comes back to him and mam too. They taught me how to read in church, doing the readings in mass.
I read at his funeral today. I hope I did him proud.
He was a bizarre man, my granddad. He had this habit of randomly letting out a yell every time he thought things were getting too quiet. I swear, sitting vigil over him on Wednesday night, I was expecting him to do it again. I think I was half expecting him to do it right up until we lowered the coffin. It would have been like him. He also had a tendency to have really strange things in his pockets. We were remembering that, the four grandkids, over in the funeral home, and it turned out it wasn't just us. Everyone who knew him knew about the couple of dozen pockets he always had, and the random things that could come out of them. From tiny things like ancient sweets and random coinage, to cutlery (you should always have a fork in your pocket for emergencies) and fuses and, on one memorable occasion, a small saw.
I'm not joking. Although there was a bit of serendipity involved in that one. He was walking home one evening after having done some repair work on his sister's house, when he passed a couple of mates of his doing a bit of similar work. Knowing about him and his pockets, apparently they jokingly asking him if he had a saw handy. He paused for a minute, I've no idea what he was thinking, and then he actually reached into his coat and pulled out a saw. "I don't have a proper saw, but do you think a handsaw would do?" Apparently their faces were something to behold. *grins crookedly*
He was a hell of a man. He was ... he was such a huge part of my life, granddad. I blame him for one hell of a lot of my foibles and my talents, and I think I thank him for every one of them. He was one of those rocks you raise yourself on, and I hope that wherever he is, he's back with the woman he loved, and doing the things that mattered to him.
Goodbye and good luck, granddad. Slán abhaile.
*shakes head* Ah. I wanted to thank everyone who sent condolences. I haven't been able to respond the past few days, but I got them, and I thank you.
Thank you all.
