England’s green and pleasant land

My Grandad passed away on May 4th.

I still have no idea what to write.

What stories can I tell about George Clements that will convey a clear and accurate picture of him?

There are the obvious things: he was an incredibly talented stone mason, he had a wonderfully dry sense of humour, he could be quite a stubborn smarty pants, he was generous, kind, handsome, a great whistler and stone skipper, built the best fires ever and grilled a mean hamburger.

He also taught me that no one is going to just let me win, I’d have to earn it (playing Battleship with Grandad was a sure-fire way to prove that however clever you thought you were – he’s far more clever). I learned that listening is a lot more useful than talking, paying good money for good things is smarter than paying a little money for cheap garbage and that honour and manners still matter.

But none of these things really convey the whole picture either.

Maybe it’s enough that I have the good fortune to be his granddaughter. You don’t get to choose your family, but I would have chosen him had I not been born to the right family.

I’m looking at a great picture of Grandad on the beach: he is looking up, eyes narrowed a little against the sun, just beginning to smile up at my aunt (and what you can’t see is the rusty little dinky car he’d found and offered her) with the waves just coming in on the shoreline.

That picture is my Grandad – it’s the perfect picture – relaxed, happy and just wandering along the shore of the beach looking for interesting things.

If there is a heaven, I hope that’s what he’s doing now.

For me at least, there is no goodbye, because I’ll always remember and I like to think I’ve learned enough from him to carry it with me into the world.

Are all of these words inadequate? You bet they are – but I’m not sure what else to say.