As I sit here composing this for my Clowne site, Miles Davies solo-piano-works on my CD player. I think how different my life is to my grandfather’s.
My grandfather was a big jazz fan, though for most of his life there was little he could hear. There were the soft whites like Glen Miller and Frank Sinata and the cosy “n******” as they were then called, (without either rancour or of course hate). But it was at the end of his life when he was brought a gramophone and he heard for the first time the music of Charlie Parker and his like, that he was really with his own.
I remember him, pipe in mouth, nearly crying that he had never heard such beautiful music before and now he was dying and will soon hear it no more.
Unlike him, I am not sat by a cooking range drinking beer, but in central heating and drinking flavoured-tea. He would have thought me a royt cissy.
My grandfather was a railway signal-man, I loved visiting him in his box. It was a serious trespass offense, and I often had to hide from his superintentent. If I had any empathy I would have known that my grandfather’s boss knew I was hiding in the little alcove.
I was fourteen when Oliver Cuthbert died. I lost more than a grandparent, I lost a friend, someone who used to tell people I ha’ gumption (common-sense, a big compliment in the Derbyshire coal-fields). And that I will go far.
We used to go for walks you know and he used to point people out in his Renishaw village. “There’s old Mrs. —-
She hab 22 baiens, only four lived to be grown-up and all four died in war. Aye lad, thou think ye’s hard-up, what ab’t her, 22 children and none been alive for her old age. She’a my age, looks 100.”
Such stories later became my mainstay in the newspaper industry.
Funny, I didn’t start out to write about my grandfather, but about the time I lived in Cyprus. Another day perhaps.
—
The Clown From Clowne.
________________________
My Grandfather outside his Railway House.
Comments (22)
I love the smile on his face in that photo.
I unfortunately never knew either of my grandfathers, who both died before I was born. Sounds like yours was one of the good ones.
A great story. I love nostalgic stories of family and family life. Remembering them is a big part of living, dreams of the mind.
I was just re-reading comments and yours struck me. Yes, some family will take your last dime. I had a friend who’s children wiped out all of her savings and left her with nothing. She died not long after. She was a good friend, one I wish I had known years before I did. People, family, friends, acquaintences, all different, some givers, some takers, all interested in you for different reasons. I never forget a face but some of the names escaped sometime back when.
i am glad you ended up writing about your grandfather it was a wonderful, true story…
the best kind to share…will look forward to
reading about your life in Cyprus…have a
grand day and drink a BEER, for your granddad!
AH, nostalgia! Great story.
Very enjoyable read. I have to agree with LE on the comment regarding relationships with people. I wrote in my own blog a few days back. “The connected feeling of life is what makes it worth living. The ties that bind us to others, tearing us apart in some ways, making us whole in others. ” I think that is what it all boils down to, some will be good, some will be bad.
Ah, Terry, memories that bless and burn. My dad was to me as your grandfather was to you…my champion. He always said I could do anything I I put my mind to. When I was in the sick period, he was the only one….THE only one who still loved and supported me. Sadly, he died before he saw me get clean and sober. If I didn’t believe he knows that now, I would lose my mind.
Please come over to my site and give me some much needed advice. You don’t need to delete my comments for I am safe now.
What wonderful memories, the special times we spend with special people is a gift to cherish. BTW, you are more than welcome to print out any of my poems that you want to re-read later. -Margot
Terry (if I may be so bold as to call you that) that touched me. My own grandfather was a bootlegger during prohibition, he never outgrew it. Reading this reminded me of him.
I do care about line breaks, actually. I was going for disjointed. *smiles* Loosing this one was painful
Hey thanks for the comment, I love your input. ~A
Ah, my dear, I am sorry to bring back these memories. Thank you for visiting and commenting! One day, I, too, will be there.
Nice story. I’m sorry you lost your friend and grandfather.
great story. reminds me of my time with my dad.
i still hav journals and diaries from when i was young…younger, i mean, im only 13.
such as a sad thought it would be, to be old and dying with the knowledge that you will never again hear music
I have some memories of the stories my grandmother used to tell me that always make me smile.
Our countries are very different, that is a fact. But love is a language that crosses borders. It’s obvious that you loved and still love your grandfather!
Thanks so much for sharing your memories of your wonderful Grandfather. That is something greatly lacking in the American culture. (not all) but some people (actually most that I know) do not have the kind of relationships with their Grandparents that you speak of. I think we suffer for the loss of wisdom in our lives, and the history!
My Daughter (she’s 20) answered your question about:”Mushy is cockney for mouth and bushy is slang for vagina, tushy is Geordie for “touchy”
So work that one out!”
She said:” Be quiet while touching your vagina.” So shushy mushy bushy tushy has more than one meaning…lol!
……don’t be sad that he is gone……be happy that you had him…….you are truly blessed…….peace 2 u….
He sounds just wonderful. …My gramps used to tease us about the invisible purple lions. Maybe that is why I am like I am now…
it’s really hard for me thinking about when my grandparents die. (you must remember how young i am.)
it’s funny how people talk about the the greatness of the world’s youth, when we learn all we know from those before us.
this was very nice to hear, because your feelings slip out in these small clips.
just so you know, pansies are pansies anyway you look at it.
kristie
I still have the pocketknife that my grandfather gave me. Actually he sold it to me for a penny. I was about 7 years old and believed him to be a really wonderful man. I later learned from my father that he was a drunkard who beat his wife and kids regularly. He was always good to me. I did think him rather cheap for charging me a penny tho.
I get feelings similar as your grandfather did whenever I think about the kids, present and future, who never get exposed to Ella Fitzgerald.
Comments on previous blogs are at MY blog. Come on over.
What a beautiful and poignant moment that must have been for your grandfather to hear Charlie Parker. That moment is a little kernel of truth and you must write that moment over and over again until you get it exactly right!