Today's prompt: Write about a memory you have involving one (or more) of your grandparents.
Dana Lee wrote:
My grandpa on my mother's side passed away almost 12 years ago. I talked about his funeral briefly last week.
When I was younger I would spend time at their house up north for a week or two sometimes. A few summers I would go to Vacation Bible School at their church. We would begin and end the day in the sanctuary. We would sing songs, talk about the day, etc.
My grandpa was a tall man. One day he got the honor of playing Goliath in a reenactment of "David and Goliath." I thought it was so cool to see him get so excited about it and fall dramatically to the floor as he pretend died.
Chuck C. wrote:
It was a sunny, brisk spring day. I was about thirteen or fourteen years old, and I was going out with my Grandpa to do one of my favorite activities with him: shoot stuff. For Christmas a few months before I had gotten a new rifle, a Mosin-Nagent M44 carbine. It was an old Russian World War II era sniper rifle, thought it could more accurately be described as a cannon.
As a young kid I was honestly a bit terrified to fire the thing off. We pulled into his gun club and made our way down to the range. My grandpa grabbed a set of old bean cans that he had brought with him and set them up in a row. My Grandfather is a bit stoic, and would never visibly show it, but I think we has just as excited to fire of my new rifle as I was. We walked back to the firing line and got out the star of the day. The shells, which weren’t easy to find, were the size of my middle finger.
My grandpa insisted on firing it first, seeing as the thing was old enough to be my grandfather (if guns has the ability to reproduce). He loaded one round into the chamber and racked the bolt. When he pulled that trigger, a deafening sound ripped through the small valley the range was built into. The can the bullet hit flew from its resting place and landed a good ten feet away. Of course, I instantly demanded to fire the next shot. He obliged, loaded a shot for me and handed me the rifle. I lined up my shot and squeezed the trigger. I thought my shoulder would rip off as the gun recoiled. The can flew upwards and disappeared in the brush in front of the back stop. Instantly I was hooked.
All told I put probably 40 rounds that day through that thing. My shoulder hurt for days. However, fond memories with my grandfather and making stuff fly with bullets was well worth it.
Melody Joy wrote:
I have a lot of memories of my grandparents, but one that came to mind involved my paternal grandfather, who passed away a few years ago now. I was in middle school, and normally my mom picked me up, but she was unable to do so one day for some reason, so my grandpa came to get me.
We were driving down the main street which had a 35 mph speed limit. Being in Michigan, most people therefore went at least 40. We were pushing 30. It felt like we were moving in slow motion and I was fairly certain we wouldn’t make it home before dark at the rate we were going.
Then, an impatient driver zoomed around us, cutting close in front of us in their frustration with our slow pace. My grandpa commented, “Boy, they sure are in a hurry.” While I agreed on the outside, on the inside, I was dying as I thought, “I wish we were....”
I loved my grandpa. He definitely marched to the beat of his own drum and didn’t care much about what others thought of him. As a former police officer, he still followed the law to the letter and seemed surprised when others did not follow suit.
For more information on our blog, please read our welcome page by clicking here.
No comments:
Post a Comment