A Grandfather Like No Other Extract from 'My Saturdays with Grumps' 2024 P Cook Jones
My grandfather, whom I affectionately called 'Grumps' was a remarkable, unforgettable character whose presence could light up any room. Throughout his life, he experienced countless changes in the world around him, yet he remained steadfastly unchanged. With a wardrobe that often consisted of the same well-worn clothes for days on end, he found joy in his beloved garden, where rows of lush beans, robust potatoes, and rhubarb (his secret ingredient for wine) flourished alongside the biggest, healthiest pumpkins I had ever laid my eyes on.
Each Halloween, he would generously give these magnificent pumpkins to local children, spreading joy and laughter in our neighbourhood. Any prize-winning vegetables he grew were lovingly donated to charity, thus showcasing his generous spirit. Grumps was a man of stories, and oh, the tales he could tell!
He often portrayed himself as someone who had done it all and been everywhere, and while he never explicitly stated this, the impression he left was undeniable. From the moment I was a baby perched on his knee, he spun enchanting tales of his adventures, captivating me with each word. I called him Grumps, not out of any grumpiness—though he had his moments—but simply because, as a toddler, I couldn’t quite pronounce 'grandpa.' The name stuck like a charm, amusing the rest of my family. Those visits produced golden moments for both of us. I was his only grandchild, and my eagerness to listen matched his enthusiasm for storytelling.
There was an uncanny resemblance between us—both in character and in spirit, much like my father before me. I’d lost my father to a serious illness not long after being born so Grumps became a father figure to me. He had a unique way of weaving stories, his expressive voice animated by theatrical gestures and the most amusing facial expressions. Some of the best stories were shared with my grandmother quietly nestled nearby, her fingers dancing over knitting needles or flicking through the pages of a book. When bad weather kept us from his cherished shed, ‘The Den’, she would provide subtle hints about the accuracy of his tales. A raised eyebrow or a pursed lip from her would often signal whether he was spinning a tall tale or sticking to the truth. Mostly, his stories rang true, with the occasional embellishment that only made them more captivating. Unbeknown to him, she was always tuned in, listening, dismissing the notion that she was hard of hearing. Her selective listening was a delightful quirk I’ve observed in others as well. Sometimes she’d chime in with a playful admonishment, “Now don’t be filling the lad’s head with a lot of nonsense!” Yet, no gentle reprimanding could dim his spirit or enthusiasm for storytelling. And so began the tapestry of my memories with Grumps, a tale of laughter, warmth, and the extraordinary bond we shared.
