Leo Tolstoy'sThe Grandfather And His Grandson?

When you think of losing a grandparent in your life, you think of them passing away. You dread the day you will get the call that they are sick. You then begin to cherish all the moments you have with them leading up to their passing. You have time to except their sickness, and come to terms with the outcome that is to come. My PopPop is not here anymore, but do not get confused, for he is alive. I did not have warning. I did not have time to cherish him. I did not have time to say goodbye. My PopPop was on no medication, which was almost uncanny for a 75-year-old. Trying to encompass everything he was boils down to a few things that may not seem like much to someone who didn’t know him. He went on a walk every night after dinner, and would whistle the same tune when he was happy. He played the same little ditty on the piano every time we were all in the living room. He was a simple man who could not harm a fly, and a good man. Unlike the grandchild warned when they are going to lose a grandparent, I did not have this notice. I did not have time to go on one last walk with him, and I did not have time to record him on the piano. I did not have time to replicate his whistling song, or to spend time with the man I knew. My PopPop was the heathiest man I knew, but then he got depression. First slowly, then all at once. The man I knew had slipped from my fingers without any chance to hold on tighter.

Yet, these parents have to accept that they will never be able to live their lives with or share their love openly with the child. So they must find ways to hold on to the memories. Many bereaved parents come to learn that "memories are the precious gifts of the heart...[that they need] these memories and whispers, to help create a sense of inner peace, a closeness" (Wisconsin Perspectives Newsletter, Spring 1989, 1).

However, one character in my life was never ordinary; in fact, he was the exact definition of extraordinary. My “papaw” became my favorite playmate, my other half, and my best friend. We were commonly referred to as "two peas in a pod" and " each other's pride and joy." I loved my grandpa in the deepest, most sincere way a young child could. As I grew older, my grandpa assumed the role of my confidant and supporter. When my grandmother would scold me or when my sister and I would argue, I knew that I could retreat into the loving arms of my grandfather. The only thing that he ever did to upset me was when he said, "When I go, I'll miss everyone, but I'll miss you the most, Bug." Little did I know, I would soon long to hear these

I never really knew my grandpa as well as I would have liked. He was already an old, old man by the time I started high school, and my own memories of him are mostly of a man confined by age and ailing health. So I'm not really going to talk about my memories of him. Instead, I'm going to try to share his memories and the memories of those that knew him.

The summer rain of San Luis Potosí, México, made it almost impossible to go outside and enjoy the city without getting drenched, so Abuelito, Silence, and I together in one room, enjoying our second return to our hometown. He sat on his chair and I lay on the bed, calmly looking through the family albums. Bookshelves filled with books from my mother’s and uncles’ university courses and my Abuelita’s books from her teaching years covered one wall. It remained the same ever since we moved to the United States. The same TV. The same bed sheets. The only things that changed was my grandpa’s ability to walk and me. I gained height and weight and well, he has gotten older and weaker. I have lived my whole life with him by my side but do I really

When I was younger, I grew up with four grandparents who I could spend time with. As I started to grow older, my grandparents started to deteriorate. My grandmother developed Alzheimer’s, and more specifically dementia. I remember one day at my beach house when I was talking to her, she asked me who I was because she couldn’t remember. She didn’t remember her own grandson. She started to lose all her memory and she had difficulty hearing and speaking. It got to a point where there was no way of communicating with her, and we wondered if she even knew who her own family was. She went through this deterioration for upwards of 5 years, and I it got to a point where I forgot what she was like before she developed the mental disease. I would watch

That excerpt from the paragraph made me a little sad while reading it due to the fact that it reminded me how close I was o grandmother and how

If I were asked who the most precious people in my life are, I would undoubtedly answer: my family. They were the people whom I could lean on to matter what happens. Nonetheless, after overhearing my mother demanded a divorce, I could not love her as much as how I loved her once because she had crushed my belief on how perfect life was when I had a family. I felt as if she did not love me anymore. Poets like Philip Levine and Robert Hayden understand this feeling and depict it in their poems “What Work Is” and “Those Winter Sundays.” These poems convey how it feels like to not feel love from the family that should have loved us more than anything in the world. Yet, they also convey the reconciliation that these family members finally reach

In the beginning of the story the man is forced to eat all of his meals out of a bowl while being isolated from his family. Then, one day the old man's grandson makes his parents a bowl so that they will be able to eat out of it when they are older. The parents then realize that they too will grow old, and they don't want to be treated like the grandfather. From that day on in the story, the old man is able to eat at the table with his family and is treated better

In reading this book it triggered a memory from over ten years ago. In 2001, I lost my great-grandmother to heart related issues. For me her death went farther than just losing a relative. As far back as I can remember my great-grandmother was a part of my daily life. My mother had me when she was still in high school so naturally she still lived at home. My father was nonexistent in

My grandma had survived a hard life, and yet managed to raise four responsible, well-educated, and successful children. All this she did while working as a respected psychiatric nurse and a state mental health board member. Although she had had and was still overcoming trials in life, I always knew she would be there and cared about me and my life. As my brother and I grew older and were unable to visit my grandparents as often as we

Grandpa is almost ninety-five and now resides in a nursing home. The leg he fractured forty years ago is too weak to carry his weight. His eyes are going bad. But to me he's still the big, strong man who used to take his grandchild in his arms and rock to

The crunch of frozen grass could be heard a mile away at five o’clock in the morning. My grandpa and I whispered conversation as we strolled over to our favorite deer blind. We cautiously marched over sticks trying hard not to make any sounds. We eventually made it without spooking any deer and set our guns down, waiting for sunrise. These are the times I enjoy the most with my grandpa. It is a chance to sit back and enjoy life with one of my favorite people on this planet. Time goes slower in these moments. It gives us a chance to share conversation about anything. We swap stories from the past and I always seem to learn something new from my grandpa. Whether it be from advice he gives me or from an experience long ago, I’m always listening. Although our experiences may be different we still love to enjoy the same hobbies together, whether it’s woodworking, hunting, or time out on the lake; sharing life with my grandpa is priceless.

For many people, Grandpa is a storyteller, someone to go fishing with, and someone who has your back no matter what. The experience I had with my grandpa was a little different. I never got the opportunity to meet my great-grandfather Liston Grider, but he still somehow managed to have a huge impact on my life. Sometimes my mom would tell stories about him; happy memories from her childhood, sad ones that were painful for her to tell, and everything in between. I thought I had heard it all, but this past summer I learned something about my great grandpa that would perhaps impact my life forever. This story was not told by my mom like usual, but by someone who was a complete stranger to me. The lessons I learned would not be taught in a single day, but over the span of a month through a series of Facebook messages and letters in the mail. The words I read upon opening those messages and letters would change my life forever, permanently transform my beliefs, and show me what it truly means to be an American.

When we were together we were invincible, us against the world. I’d look up to him, not only because he was 6’4, but because he was my grandpa. I have clear memories of him picking me up from school, playing old school reggae music during our adventurous car rides. We’d always sing along to our favorites, sometimes turn the music up so loud the people in the cars next to us could hear it. When I would visit his apartment, the familiar smell of drywall and pennies would fill the air. It was my hideaway, my home away from home. My grandpa collected pennies in water jugs. He would say that one day they’d be worth more than just pennies. I loved it there, not only because he had a freezer filled with many flavors of ice cream to which he would often say to me “you can have all you can eat” but because it was our time to bond. For five years it was my mom, my dad, and my grandpa helping me to grow. Those are my favorite people, my role models. Being around my grandpa brought me such comfort and joy.