Grandfather

We were on the way to florida that afternoon.

Turns out he had a stroke and wasn't doing too well.. but the only thing that I felt was anger at my grandmother for not helping him quickly enough. Granted, I didn't really know the man very well, but he was still my grandpa.

Now it's 4 years later and I miss him like I never did when he was alive. I wish that I hadn't been so.. reluctant to get to know him. But, then again, I was just a teenager.

My mom says that I am a clone of him... We act the same, look the same, have the same ideals. I just hope that I can grow into his image... without having known him.

In 1996, he was diagnosed with cancer. In the months that followed, he his health deteriorated rapidly. During those months, I didn't see him very often, even though he lived just around the corner, a 30 second walk from my house. I didn't went to see him because I wanted to remember him how I've always known him, a big, strong (and bald) guy, but not the sick skinny person that was lying there in that bed.
I went to visit him on my birthday, December 1st. He hardly recognised me, but it made me somewhat happy that he called my name.
Two days later, Tuesday December 3rd 1996, he passed away. He was buried on Saturday.

To this day, I still haven't visited his grave since the day he was buried. I think about him every day, but I haven't had the courage to visit his grave. Perhaps I should do it this year on his birthday.

"If we get back together tonight I hope you will forgive me..."

Leland "Gramps" Perrott 1938-2000

My father's father, grandpa, was an Orange Man. Not sectarian, it was more of a cross between a social club and the masons for him. I can remember him marching on the 12 July, his sword out, his slash bright and proud. He had his oath framed on the wall, signed in his own blood. He ran the Londonderry chapters in the 1950s, which may explain the difficulty I had getting government security clearance. I remember how he smelled, old, musty, peppermints and pipe tobacco.

He raised 15 children, with no education, a small farm and a farm house with 3 bedrooms. He saw another 3 children die, 2 from fever, and 1 who fell down a well. He didn't complain. He had around 30 grandchilden, and another 20 great grandchildren. He knew all our names. The government wouldn't let him sign up during the war, he was a farmer, he was necessary. He watched his brother die 2 years after returned from a Japanese internment camp, refusing to eat, as the Japanese would mix the Red Cross parcel drops in with the food, letters, tobacco and medicine. He had his pictures on the wall of his little terraced house.

He died when I was 12. It rained. All 14 of my uncles were there, each taking it in turn to carry the coffin down the road. My father has always had a bad back, he was ran over by a tractor when he was 8. When it was his turn to carry the coffin, I did it. Walking at the front right hand side, my arms high above my head, I was too small to shoulder it. I remember it being light, I guess now my uncles took the weight, but I remember at the time thinking how proud he would be to see me grown up.

My parents aren't home yet.

They left to accompany my stubborn brat of a grandmother, rushed to the hospital with Grandpop. He had a low temperature, yes a low temperature, not a high temperature, not a fever, low. Earlier, I walked into the kitchen and mom asked, "what does a low temperature mean?", without context. I asked her what she meant, she said, "low body temperature", as in, the medical sense. All I could think of the symptom was hypothermia or drug overdose.

However, Grandpop is quite dry, and quite sober as well. He does have blood pressure issues, so the low temperature could be very well indicative of death coursing on his heels. I knew he'd been in a bad state these past few days, as grandparents so often are. But why aren't my parents home yet?

Perhaps he is dead. I wouldn't feel sad about that, I'm also so unmoved by death. He just won't be around this Christmas, that's all, I guess. It doesn't matter how much he's given me; he's the only reason I have any bit of intelligence in me. He's the reason I'm writing this, both the inspiration and execution.

He was among the inventors of synthetic rubber, and holds a PhD in philosophy, which I didn't learn about until I saw the diploma in my grandparent's basement this year. They had lots of old books, including one ancient guide book for boys. That guidebook suggests brandy as a remedy for all illnesses and claims that lightening is some sort of "electric liquid". I left the book, in the house my dad grew up in.

Grandpa is my dad's dad, he's the source of my surname, "Shelley". People always call me Shelley, like it's my first name; the number who don't know my first name because of it is astounding. Whenever someone calls my name, will I think of Grandpop, poor, cold Grandpop? Will the be calling out to him, so high on the family tree? In he in a stale, stained hospital bed or one of those big filing cabinets for cadavers?

My parents aren't home yet, I don't know why they aren't home yet; I'm getting nervous and am without means to distract myself. What if he's dead? I'll spend all next week without means of communicating to my mourning parents, my dad will be horribly depressed once again and probably break down, my mom won't try to think about anything and I won't be able to converse with her. They'll make me shave my beard for the funeral, probably because facial hair is considered unsightly by my mom. I won't get my wisdom teeth out on Thursday, as is planned, I won't spend the end of spring break drugged up on painkillers and watching shit movies with throbbing pains of nausea in my stomach. I'll go to school and maybe, if word gets out, nobody will know how interact with me. That's fine; recently I've been fine. I don't know how to interact with me.

I made coffee. I don't want to drink it, I'm not hungry, I'm not thirsty. I want to listen to sappy sad music. And king of sap, Mr. Oberst, agrees:

I need to get lost in something.

venting..

One way a rule is "grandfathered" is when it retroactively applies to any instance that occurred in the past. For example, if a rule came out making marijuana legal, there would be a massive battle on how far back and to what extent the new law would apply to people convicted under the previous set of laws. That's why most grandfather clauses have very tight restrictions on how they may be applied.

A "grandfathered" law may also refer to exemption of those violating the rule prior to its inception. For example, when Washington, D.C. raised its drinking age from 18 to 21, people between those ages, who could drink under the old law, were allowed to retain the right to legally consume alcohol under a grandfather clause.

Grand"fa"ther (?), n.

A father's or mother's father; an ancestor in the next degree above the father or mother in lineal ascent.

Grandfather longlegs. Zool. See Daddy longlegs.

© Webster 1913.