Today is the 11th of the 11th and the 89th anniversary of the day the guns went quiet on the western front in the Great War.
Today at 11am I sat on the lawns of the Australian War Memorial to commemorate this. As we sat waiting, I mentioned to Lachlan the medal my grandfather had received for construction service in WWII.
Last weekend we had visited Grand-dad in the nursing home. He had recognised me when I arrived, but then lapsed into semi-sleep broken by occasional wakefulness.
Every now and then he would reach out towards my grandmother, and when she took his hand, he would try to pull himself up. He seemed to hate being stuck in a chair.
Just as I was about to leave, he reached out towards me (I was sitting next to him) and when I took his hand, he just held it. There was no attempt to stand, it seemed that he just wanted to hold my hand.
After Lachlan and I left the war memorial I turned my phone back on and listened to a voicemail from my dad. As it turns out, I was talking about my Grand-dad when he died.
And although I sit here crying, I feel so privileged that I got to see him last weekend, and for the 23 years I have had him.
Goodbye Grand-dad, I will remember you.
11-11-2007
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The tattoos on Granddad's arms were always bright blue. He got them in the war. They looked small and almost childishly drawn on his brawny storeman's forearm.
The tattoos on the man that once was Granddad that I watched dying last night with my father -- his son -- were large and pale.
But before you nod your head at the symbolism, know that if you judged my Granddad by his tattoos and his sometimes brusque mannerisms, you misjudged him.
His was an artist's heart in a tradesman's body. He locked in deeply-felt emotions that were -- perhaps even in his own eyes -- out of sync with his sturdy and blunt exterior.
But the emotions he did let out were always a credit to him: immense pride in the achievements of his children, a passion for oil on canvas, a head for history, and an inventor's spark.
Goodbye Granddad, I will remember you.
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