This week, I decided to post one of my other options for a writing sample. It’s always hard to write about relatives. I haven’t received any feedback on this piece. However, the prompt for it was simply “hearing.” The essay, another brevity (which means it only has 850 words or less), was a sample for class that I never handed on. Writing about my grandfather is difficult. As Dr. Graham instructed me last year, when we write about our relatives, it can come across as overly sappy or dramatic. It needs to be crisp, clear and reflective.
This piece clearly needs a lot more work than the Bella essay. I’ve refrained from working on that one just yet because I’m struggling removing and adding new material. This piece about my grandfather, who passed away in the fall of 2008 as I was starting college, feels like it could be a prominent piece alongside my reckoning essay. It’s also interesting how it’s four years later and could possibly be the start of another school year that he is distantly involved in.
Currently, it’s at about 800 words and needs serious work in terms of sharpening my images and creating a clear, poignant reflection without falling into the cliché, “Oh I miss my grandpa.”It’s difficult because as Dr. Graham taught me in class, we love our grandparents. We want to write warm, fuzzy things about them. But readers want the truth and honesty. They want to see both sides. Maybe grandpa went to jail or grandma stole flour from the supermarket. I’m making these up and they’re ridiculous, but I hope everyone got the point. This essay hasn’t touched upon the ugly sides. It’s a struggle, but I have a feeling if I can push aside that pedestal I’ve placed my grandpa on, I can get somewhere.
What’s to be remembered, we love people no matter their flaws. That’s what makes us human. In fact, I feel as though I loved him more because he magnified my own flaws for me to see. He was my grandpa. We shared some of the same personality quirks and flaws.
Also, have several options for writing samples. My longer reckoning may be tossed aside if I have a sudden burst of inspiration. Never stop writing. a little scribble on a napkin can become your next personal statement or narrative essay.
Dad called him the “Lawn Ranger”. I’d always giggle and listen out my window for the mechanical clanking and whirring blades on the old, red Wheel Horse as Grandpa swirled around the yard, hacking up the vibrant green of his lawn. Grandpa always bought red equipment. Our rusty snowplow truck was red. Great Grandpa told him red would help melt the snow. What Great Grandpa said was law.
The back door to my Grandparents’ house was a thin metal door that precariously swung out and threatened to thwack you in the nose if you weren’t careful. It screeched and groaned in protest every time I threw it open after I ran down the sloping lawn to knock on the door for cookies. Musical notes of Perry Como drifted out the open doorway as Grandpa swallowed me in one of his bear hugs. I’d poke his belly to make him laugh like the Pillsbury Dough boy. He’d wiggle his ears. I’d laugh harder. Grandma always yelled from the kitchen to shut the door as I could smell the fresh tollhouse cookies she had just baked, their moist chocolate chips simmering on the stove. She’d hand me one. It would melt in my hand before even making it to my tongue where I could savor the thick chips and doughy batter. Grandpa would sneak up behind me and snatch one from the stove. He was a Diabetic. But he cheated. He’d whisper not to tell Grandma or she’d “holler” at him. She’d be watching him from around the corner, silent, but knowing.
Horses run in my family’s blood. They owned, trained, sold, bought, spoiled racehorses. They weren’t very fast, but it was never about the speed. Grandpa took me to my first race. I remember standing up against the rail, trying to peer over the top, but failing. Everything was vibrating. The ground shook, the rail swayed, and the stands roared. He’d place his hand on my shoulder and point.
“Look to the turn,” he’d say.
So I stood on tiptoe, trying to look, but only succeeding in listening. The Saratoga flags whipped in the breeze behind me. I shut my eyes tight and heard them. Their pack of hooves churning the dirt and swallowing up ground as each stride pushed them towards an imaginary line. Grandpa muttered under his breath.
“Come on. Come on.”
He had placed a sizable bet on this one horse. He was in the back of the pack. I looked up at his scowling face just before he shrugged and smiled at me.
“That’s why it’s called gambling,” he chuckled.
We stuck to just watching the races and buying food for the rest of the day. I knew better than to ask any questions. I was pretty proud of my gambling skills as a ten-year-old. The elderly men at the track would listen to my betting tactics anytime I had a stroke of luck.
I turned 16. I walked down to see my Grandparents less and less. School, horses, friends - all seemed so much more thrilling. He didn’t have to say that I hurt him by not visiting. I knew I did. It was harder to visit each time, having to bear that disappointment that I could hear in the edges of his voice as I talked, overly cheerful, about daily occurrences that now seemed completely mundane.
I trained my very own horse. He came to every show. I started running cross-country and track. He watched me win the championship. I got into college with a running scholarship. He told every single one of friends that his granddaughter was going to run in the Olympics.
Grandpa made me cry. He said I ignored him at my graduation and didn’t run to give him a hug. My dad fought with him back at the house. I wanted to throw my diploma in the trash as their angry voices floated around from behind the rose bush. I apologized to him.
Grandpa got sick. He had cancer. I sat on that hospital bed with him one afternoon. It didn’t make a sound when you sat down. Normal beds squeak or make a thumping sound. This bed did nothing. It didn’t exist. I shuffled the sticky deck of cards, listening to their sharp flipping sound as I made sure I mixed them up good. Grandpa just watched me. The hospital machines beeping behind him, the fluorescent lights buzzing, and the TV – still audible even though it was on mute. My head swam and wanted to burst from all the noise. He cleared his throat.
“I’m betting 4. You taking it?”
He knew I wouldn’t. He kicked my ass in Setback every time.
Grandpa died five days after I got to school. Mom drove me home in the dark. I said goodbye, but I know he didn’t hear me as I looked at his swollen face and hands. I wanted to apologize for the years lost. I wanted to thank him. Instead I cried – it was as good as silence.
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