Ralphie

At college today I was asked to write something short and informal about someone who was or had meant something to me. I chose to write about my grandpa. I have also chosen to post it here for prosperity......so here goes.....




Ralphie


My Grandpa, John Ralph Welsh. Known to most as Ralph but to his cheeky young granddaughter as Ralphie.

My grandpa was one of the most loving men I have ever known. He was also one of the most special people I had around in my early years. I would spend most weekends following in his shadow. I loved to be with him.

He was a Yorkshire man, with one of the most broad accents I had ever heard. He had a strong imposing voice but came across as such a quiet man.

I can picture him now, sitting in his big blue chair, positioned at just the right angle so he could keep a careful watch out of the front window and an eagle eye on what was going on in the world outside. His grey hair would glisten as the sun shone through.

My Grandpa was my mum’s dad. He struggled in the first few months of my life to accept he had a granddaughter. My mum was unmarried and still living at home when she gave birth to me. As he saw me growing up I must have grown on him as what started as a reluctant acceptance soon grew into complete and unconditional love. I always remember him showering me with attention and affection. He was a very demonstrative man.

I can never remember him having a ‘proper’ job. He was a bit of an odd job man and frequently I used to go with him on what I saw as adventures. On days when he was a chimney sweep it would be my job to stand outside and shout when I saw the sooty brush push a puff of black dust out of the top of the chimney, a job for which I would be rewarded with a shiny new 10p.
On the days when he was a gardener it was my job to follow him around with a small yellow plastic child’s bucket collecting snails that had been devouring his clients most precious blooms. For this I would be rewarded with afternoon tea and homemade cakes.

When he didn’t have work we would walk for hours, him leading the way with some random branch he had found that would serve as a walking stick for the afternoon’s outing. As we walked we would pick the sticky blackberries that grew in the hedgerows. We wouldn’t usually return home with many (if any at all) but our purple fingertips and lips would give the game away that we had eaten them all on the way back.

My grandpa was an indulgent man, he would let me put tiny pigtails in his coarse hair and I would comb his eyebrows, all the while giggling as they were the longest eyebrows I had ever seen. He wore glasses and when we played cards he would smile to himself and wink at me as he knew I was cheating and checking out his hand in the reflection in them. But never once did he stop me.

He taught me to dance too. He would whiz me around their tiny cluttered living room to music played on his ancient record player. Louis Armstrong’s "What a wonderful world" being his favourite. I don’t think I have ever felt happier than I did during these moments and that song will always bring a smile and a warm feeling into my heart whenever I hear it.

My Grandpa died 5 years ago and I still miss him. What he did for me may not seem important to anyone other than myself but the love he showed me taught me how to show love for others, and for that I will be forever grateful.