When grasped in his hug,
we felt small as a bug.
When it was wet outside
his stories kept us occupied.
His history was keen,
his memory never lean.
He knew all of old
and the stories he told
kept us warm at night
even after he turned out the light.
At the table he belched,
a habit never squelched.
Yes, he may have been crude
but he was never rude.
Of work, he did quite a lick,
even we he had to lean on a walking-stick.
He had quite a dialect,
this man for whom I have great respect.
As the years passed, he became
bent with sickness and age.
In Life's Book he fills a whole page.
His later life was led
on borrowed time, to his death bed.
Though his life was not lived in vain,
five months he lay in pain,
until God gave him release
and let him rest-in-peace.
Three years have gone by
and sometimes I still cry.
Having him around had been no bother,
for he was my own, beloved Grandfather.
�1984 Glenda K. Austin
This poem was an assignment in my junoir year English class. We were to write a portrait of someone we knew and had about six weeks to complete it, as I recall. Well, I hated English class! Not just that year, every school year before that. (I mean, why would you need to diagram a sentence anyway ?
) To make a boring story short - I put off writing it until the weekend before it was due. But, on the bright side of that - If Mrs. Boardman hadn't given the assignment I never would have paid this kind of tribute to my grandpa. So, from everyone who knew my grandfather
