My Grandad
Where do I even start with my Grandad? He was a giant of a man, much like my Dad—over 6’1”, with a presence that filled any room. All his teeth had to be replaced with dentures, thanks to a childhood love of sweets, and I’ll never forget the joy it brought me when visiting him and my Nan after school. He had this ritual: he’d ask for a kiss, then pop out his teeth, completely transforming his face into something out of a comedy sketch. Those silly, playful moments are etched in my memory forever.
My Mom often shares the story of the first time I came home from the hospital. Born two months premature by emergency C-section after a difficult pregnancy, I was tiny and fragile, and she was understandably terrified. She called my Grandad in floods of tears, desperate for advice because I just wouldn’t sleep. He came over, looked at me, and said simply that it was far too quiet. In minutes, he had turned on the radio, the washing machine, and the television. Somehow, the chaos of sound worked its magic—and I was fast asleep. He seemed to carry an almost instinctive understanding of children, as countless memories reveal. My Dad often tells the story of him and my Grandad tossing me between each other in the living room, while my Nan and Mom grew more nervous with every throw, and I, of course, giggled uncontrollably.
Saturdays were special. My Grandad and Nan would take me horse riding, and I remember feeling completely safe with him towering over me, always a foot higher than the horse I was given, ready to catch me if I fell. He loved to tease me about that one time I fell headfirst over a horse, landing unscathed, only to scold the horse in my five-year-old voice. His laughter and pride made me feel invincible.
He had a mischievous streak too—stealing sweets, letting me get away with all sorts of mischief, and even dancing with me when he’d never dance otherwise. I realize now how lucky I was to receive that kind of dedicated, unconditional love as an only child. But perhaps my most treasured memories with him are quiet ones, like fishing. Calm, introverted, and patient, my Grandad would take me fishing, a ritual where we could just exist together, no words needed. I had the honor of handling the maggots—multi-colored, to my delight—and I remember the pride in his eyes when I wasn’t grossed out. Nan would keep our teacups filled and the obligatory sausage sandwiches ready, ensuring everything was perfect for our little adventures.
As my Grandad and Nan reached retirement, they moved to Burnham-on-Sea. I was in my late teens, thrilled for them but secretly sad to no longer have them just minutes away. Grandad had worked tirelessly since age six, and I think the relentless pace of his life may have contributed to his later health issues. Early into their retirement, he suffered an angina attack, and eventually, Alzheimer’s forced him into a care home. This disease changed him entirely. The Grandad I had loved, who had been so vibrant and full of joy, was no longer recognizable. He passed away after a year, leaving us with memories, both joyful and bittersweet.
I regret not visiting him more in those final months, though my Mom reassured me that it wasn’t truly him I would have seen. He had begun calling Nan by his previous wife’s name and didn’t recognize my Dad. Even so, I hold onto the image of him as I last remembered—pulling a funny face in the garden during a family photo, hair wild, smile enormous, laughter in his eyes. That is the Grandad I choose to remember.
Years later, I finally found a way to honor him permanently. I connected with a talented tattoo artist, Vic, and shared my idea of a watercolor tattoo depicting him fishing. When I saw the finished piece—his posture, his hat, the essence of him—it moved me to tears. Vic had captured the man I remembered, the moments we shared, perfectly. I placed the tattoo on my right leg so I could see it every day, and Vic even allowed me to gift the framed sketch to my Nan. Her tears and whispered, “That’s Alf,” gave me the sweetest confirmation that the memory resonated with her too.
I’ve been so lucky to grow up surrounded by loving, caring, humorous, and inspiring family members. Each day, my tattoo reminds me of the bond I share with them and the incredible privilege of being part of such a family. Recently, I called my Mom and Dad to find some old photos, and as we laughed and cried together, we remembered our Grandad’s love for fishing, and even scattered his ashes at one of his favorite spots—a place I now visit to reflect and feel close to him.
I love you, Grandad. Thank you for your laughter, your wisdom, and the countless moments of joy you gave me. I am proud to have known you, to have been loved by you, and to carry you with me every day.
