My Memories Of A Bike

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I can vaguely remember learning to ride a bike. I remember the smell of oil after he stopped working outside and the sound of his laugh on Saturday nights by a fire under the canopy of our small camper. I can remember stories of when I was younger that were told so often I can recite them perfectly, words rolling off my tongue so smoothly you would have thought it happened yesterday. I can remember every fight, argument, and every day the house seemed like a war zone. I can remember how grown up I felt when I got to help pack his lunch. I can still feel the glass pressed to my cheeks as I waved to him out of the back window. All of these amazing memories, and many more, far too many to include here, fill my head when I think of my grandpa. Memories from around the time I was three years old ranging all the way until yesterday morning flood my senses with tastes and smells and feelings I could write about, but none of them could begin to convey his character to a man or woman who has never had the the great opportunity to meet him. He’s an amazing man, with more composure, self-control, forgiveness, and love than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s raised me from a baby and still is today. I owe much of my character and values to his guidance. He’s always forgiven my mistakes, no matter if it was breaking a plate, hurting my brother, or losing something of his. Some mistakes take longer to forgive than others, and he may hold certain things against me until I’m grown with children of

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