It may become apparent after spending a little time with me (assuming you first overcome the horror of my appearance and my excruciating attempts at conversation), that I behave somewhat like an elderly male. This includes such qualities as my partiality for dad jokes, my abuse of dated terms, such as 'pish posh' and 'poppycock', and my vigilant daily partaking in a sherry and enima at 4 pm, sharp. Being only a young, spritely woman of 21 (ahem...), my thus unfitting nature can actually be explained in the telling of the tale of my grandfather's influence.
My Grandfather had a lot of shoes to fill. Our Grandmother suffered a stroke as she was walking us to the park one day (we sure could be trying!), and left the scene shortly thereafter; our Nonno died as he lived - in a fight (though, I personally looked forward to the fleeting visits of this intimidating man, who would consistently produce little packets of smarties from his trenchcoat); and the only toys to be found at my Nonna's were the cold, hard, collectable dolls in her immaculate collection. Also.. we were scared of her warty kisses!
Whilst we three olive-skinned brats (then, at least. My British complexion kicked in when I actually started caring about a tan, which I can now only find in a bottle) were too much trouble for some, our well-to-do Grandfather showed us endless love and patience. That's not to say he never gave us a good whooping, but I can assure you we had it coming, and you can bet your bottoms I'll be belting my own kids, by crikey! (Starting from their first word, as we all know their speaking will only lead to swearing. Little fucks.)
Now, you may be thinking at this point (as other jerk kids used to comment when I was kid [that's right, you're a jerk, now. Woh, what happened?!]), "You call your Pa, 'Grandfather'? That's a bit formal.." (which I imagine you'd say in a very jerk tone). But, I can assure you the term was borne of affection. Mum began calling her dad "Father" after reading some ridiculously romantic Russian novel as a girl, in which the heroine did the like. When my older sister mimicked this (ahahaa.. Dum dum) and called him father, also, the quick fix was to extend it to Grandfather, which was used with familiarity and sweetness thereafter.
Less sweetly, (and unbeknownst to him) he also went by Grand'farter'. His poor hearing and our cheekiness led to this invention, which we thought was of utmost genius and hilarity, at the time. 2 years ago. Nooo, we were kids! We were less successful in abusing his deafness when we were misbehaving in the car and he'd tell us to be quiet, however; He'd catch us continuing to whisper in the rear view mirror and blast, "I can see your lips moving!" Seems his vision was fine!
Our Great Gran was also terribly deaf and, as she lived til 101, suffered some memory trouble. When Gran asked Mum a question, she would shout her answer to no avail, then try writing it down. By the time Gran was done reading, though, she couldn't recall the conversation and looked at Mum like she was a complete nincompoop for handing her an irrelevant note!
Thanks to these deaf old dears I'm now in the habit of speaking face-on and loudly (lips exaggerated to show word formation) to anyone over the age of 60, who tend to respond with a look that says, "I'm old, not stupid."
Our final term of endearment for Grandfather was 'Gramps', which we lifted straight from Back to the Future and he took in his stride like a champ. We thought it very fitting that among our many caravaning adventures with Gramps was a trip to the Grampians.
Caravaning was a huge part of the Grandfather experience. We kids had many a night's sleep contested by the rumble of a little heater set on a stifling full-bore, jazz tunes left to bumble away from the 'wireless,' and Grandfather's van-shaking snore, which I imagine resembled the same brassy depth and volume produced from his euphonium back in his band days. I am grateful for all those trips we took, though. Grandfather's love of Australia (reflected in his quick-draw of a camera or binoculars, and his inability to pass any look-out without stopping) and his wonderful grandchildren (self-evident) produced many a picture of my ugly mug spoiling some fine Aussie backdrop. Gramps partook in his own share of photos, which showcase his old man pose of one foot stepping onto a bench or the like, an elbow on the knee and a slight lean forward. You show 'em, Gramps, another pretty hill conquered! (In fact, as he never let his emphysema hold him back on boardwalks or a hike, I suppose that credit is due!) I was also lucky to live the childish dream of having a million Rosellas, typical caravan park residents, feed from atop my head. Some burrowed through to my brain and I contracted many incurable bird diseases, but it was still worth the pain.
Although Grandfather treated us to these trips, he was careful not to spoil us in other ways. Whilst we were guaranteed a yes after pushing through the first two no's from my mother, Grandfather never budged on his stance that lollies rot your teeth. He'd occasionally wiggle forth his falsies to prove this point (to our delight), nevermind the fact that he and my Grandmother had their teeth replaced only as a popular cosmetic procedure back in the day. We were placated by an endless supply of biscuits and ice cream to which we could help ourselves at any time. I knew better than to point our this hypocrisy and, although I no longer like biscuits, full-access to those overstuffed jars is a fond childhood memory. In fact, when my own grandchildren come to visit (that's right, I have grandkids. I'm incredibly youthful) I will be sure to provide the same service. And if they don't like biscuits either, they will be forced to eat them until they do, by golly (so that one day, they can blog about my biscuit jars, and so on and so forth).
Gramps tried expanding our little lolly-obsessed minds, where he could.
He blew the jelly beans right out of my brain when he set a complex math problem ending in 'x0', allowing me to work out some of the initial components before revealing it was a complete waste of time (which is actually a fine analogy for my life. Full circle).
Grandfather taught me how to spell 'friend', and I don't mean that as a cheesy line. I peeked at the word (or, 'cheated', as some may say) when he gave me a spelling test one night. He was so proud that I knew about 'i before e' (except after c!), however, that I discovered guilt as a wonderful motivator for learning and always remembered it since.
Finally, I would say that Grandfather's best quality was his wicked sense of humour (which you may say he passed down to a certain member of the family. *Ahem. AHEMMM!* Sorry, furball. I take my role as cat mama very seriously). I remember when I remarked on the handiness of a little travel shower cap I saw at his house. He asked, "Want one for yourself? All you have to do is book in for surgery at the hospital. Then, after your stay, they give you one of those at no cost." That easy, huh?
My family is very stuffy when it comes to expressing affection. As opposed to the more clear cut hug and kiss approach, we hide our mushy feelings by taking the time to come up with some horribly witty bit of derogation. Grandfather was fairly sick for at least as long as I knew him (I have that effect). When he found his emphysema overwhelming and needed a rest, he'd complain to my mum, "I think I'm dying, Daughter" and she'd say, "Well, hurry up, then." I'm sure you had to be there, but it was their favourite comedy routine, Mum's remark always met with a breathless chuckle from Gramps.
So, with that upbringing in mind, the next time that I flip you the bird or tell you to kiss my arse, just think of my Grandfather and know that I love you. (Not quite the 'British gentleman' conclusion set out in my contention, but it'll do. Now, on your way. *Flips the bird*.)
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