This is my paternal grandfather standing in his garden in the fall of 2004.
He is called Gunky. I'm not clear on the story why. It's not for any gross reasons (I know what most people think of when they hear the word "gunky") but it's a term of endearment. He's always been my Gunky and always will be. My earliest memory is of him trying to cheer me up by making the bubbles in a level dance. I had been bad while visiting my grandparents, so for punishment I was sent to his bedroom, to be excluded from the family gathering. I lay sobbing on his bed, completely miserable about the banishment. His silliness did cheer me up -- he made me laugh. I must have been about four. I remember the sunlight through the south-facing window; I remember the ivy wall-paper and wool blanket on the bed.
I've been thinking about him a lot this week, as I haven't sent him a letter or postcard in a long time. (Read: GUILT.) He's now 93. His world is shrinking. It's important for him to feel needed and remembered. So I usually make sure I send him something at least once a month.
I haven't sent him anything in almost 5 months. I'm a horrible granddaughter.
I'll send a pretty little card tonight.
Love & hugs,
from your granddaughter in Ottawa,