My Grandfather Knew He Was Going To Die.

And so he did. Not so long ago. Mostly though, he was an awful man full of anger, hatred, intolerance and had paved a path of wrongdoing and abuse.

But near the end of his life, he opened himself up more to the good things. Accepted his faults more than ever before-- and connected with my father again. (who had run away from home at age 15 because of the severe abuse my grandfather put him through.)

Well anyways, toward the end of his life, my Grandfather wrote some poetry. He never seemed like an articulate man. But i am a poet. And i was interested in what he wrote. He loved cars-- dead ones you'd find in a field. He'd bring them back to life, and my Dad has always done the same.

So i'd like to share with you GRMers a poem i thought you'd like, seeing as it's about cars and passion. It was something that really intrigued me.

A Man And His Car

It's a long way from new, Matter of fact, it's darn old, But if you study it good, You'd say that it's got soul.

It's lines they are sleek, It's demeanor is strong, And it stood up to its task, Done its job for so long.

Now it sets in the woods, Where they've left it to rot, The job it done was thankless, And it's help they forgot.

It don't shine anymore, For it's lusters all gone, What it needs is a heart, That longs for days gone.

A hand laid on the wheel, Or the old shifting lever, And a heart ever yearning, To put it back together.

So he drags it back home, They are together for years, And to see it brought to life, Would near bring you to tears.

It's amazing to see the feeling between, In a matter of time it again has a sheen, And it goes down the road, In a manner so proud, And where ever it goes, ya' know it draws a crowd.

No one knows the grand feeling, Of what you done with your hands, Nor the closeness you got from the rust on your hands, The feeling you get as you drive down the street, In the car you brought back, That folks think is so neat.

It rests under a sheet, And not in a junk pile, And you know, if it could, I'll bet it would smile.

I'm such a cynical, spiteful bastard that I'm pretty sure I could never reconcile with someone like your grandfather if he put me through hell and stole my childhood.

They say Hitler liked dogs and Mussolini kept the trains running on time...

Strange situation, for sure.

gamby wrote: I'm such a cynical, spiteful bastard that I'm pretty sure I could never reconcile with someone like your grandfather if he put me through hell and stole my childhood.

While the poem is fairly moving, it is in stark contrast to the OP's talking of him. If only he (the grandfather) had taken the time that he did with cars with the OP's father, things may have been different.

Some people find it hard to express their feelings, or do eventually come to the realization how poorly they acted over the years. I hope your grandfather is at peace

In reply to HiTempguy:

Thank you.

I never spent much time with my Grandfather. Maybe one weekend a year. I mostly knew him by the horror stories of him beating my dad and my aunts. My Dad was beaten until he urinated on himself in front of some guests my grandfather had over. He beat my Dad because he was shy around people and didn't want to eat in front of the guests. The guests were begging my grandfather to stop, that a boy shouldn't be beaten because he's timid in front of strangers. All my Dad's siblings ran away from home. Himself included.

However, i found the poem touching and i saw a lot of my Dad in it. Myself as well. Hm, i guess a dim light seems lighter in the darkest dark.

In reply to EdenPrime:

No. Your grandfather emobodied pure evil. I hope he died very much alone.

gamby wrote: In reply to EdenPrime: No. Your grandfather emobodied pure evil. I hope he died very much alone.

Dude, back off a bit. I don't think the OP is stating his grandfather was anywhere close to a good man, even after a bit of reconciliation. I am a firm believer in earning someones respect and faith. For changing even a smidge, he did a lot more than some people have ever done (my mom's mom for instance).

I am the first to crucify someone for being an intolerable shiny happy person. I don't think those memories mentioned will ever go away. By peace, I meant hopefully he learned a little about the error of his ways.

In reply to gamby:

There is no denying he was a predominantly evil man much of his life. But your hope came true; he had a heart attack in bed. My Grandmother always slept downstairs. He laid dead in his bed all day with her never even bothering to check on him. My Dad found him later on that night.

It was so strange-- my Dad was devastated. It was hard for any of us (my brother, mom, ect) to understand why. My Dad always sought after his father's approval. In cars, in marriage, in life. But no one ever approved of his father.

EdenPrime wrote: mostly knew him by the horror stories of him beating my dad and my aunts. My Dad was beaten until he urinated on himself in front of some guests my grandfather had over. He beat my Dad because he was shy around people and didn't want to eat in front of the guests. The guests were begging my grandfather to stop, that a boy shouldn't be beaten because he's timid in front of strangers.

For me, this would be unforgivable under any circumstances. Sorry if I'm being too harsh.

Author aside, I think the poem has merit. I enjoyed reading it.

Most of us have a person like this in our family tree. I'm not going to defend nor vilify them, but rather to accept and learn from. Either from turning around later in life or just by not becoming them.

As far as seeking a Father's approval... that is a different bag of Freudian worms.

gamby wrote: Mussolini kept the trains running on time...

I never understood why that was such an accoplishment, they are on tracks. There is no traffic to contend with or speed enforcement. It's like saying he kept the elevators on time. Now if he could have kept the buses on time that would have been something

EdenPrime wrote: It was so strange-- my Dad was devastated. It was hard for any of us (my brother, mom, ect) to understand why. My Dad always sought after his father's approval. In cars, in marriage, in life.

Likely because what he sought - he now knew would never come.

Re: Italy The funny thing is I knew an elderly woman who lived in Italy during the worst of the fascist times, and she solidly maintains that the trains were as late as ever, it was just everyone was afraid to say that any more.

On topic: The poem is interesting.