My Grandfather's Lovely Visit
My Grandfather’s Lovely Visit
As a child, I didn’t get to see my grandfather that often because he lived in a different town than we did. When he did come for a visit, it was amazing. His entire being was enthralling to me; he had a signature smell, which was a mixture of aloe plants and new writing paper just out of its plastic package. His appearance was always so fastidious; I used to imagine that he went through a gigantic starching press with his clothes, as their stiff cleanliness seemed to extend to him. His face and skin looked pristine, and his teeth were sparkly white. He carried himself in a sophisticated manner and was genuinely polite. I looked up to my grandfather very much, and I can proudly say I inherited many of his qualities.
He would always come in our door with a big smile and a hug and would immediately ask me how I was, or what I was doing in school, or if I had done anything interesting recently. He would ask me these questions no matter what age I was and would always pay full attention to my answers. Most adults will pleasantly ask a child those same questions, but when the child answers, the adult will only give a happy little nod and reply with “Uh-huh,” or “Is that so?” This was never the case with my grandpa; he seemed to instinctively know that the typical adult answer wasn’t enough for me, or any child.
I waited at my window for what seemed like hours for him to show up, but my mom told me it had only been ten minutes. I was three years old, so I did what any other child would do in my situation; I sat down in front of the television and watched “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” to pass the time. Mr. Rogers was always so pleasant; he would show me how he fed his fish and tell me that I was special, and he even showed me how crayons were made. He was my first friend outside of my parents and could always console my nerves. He reminded me of my grandpa. Just as Mr. Rogers was putting on his loafers and jacket to go home, there was a
As a child, I didn’t get to see my grandfather that often because he lived in a different town than we did. When he did come for a visit, it was amazing. His entire being was enthralling to me; he had a signature smell, which was a mixture of aloe plants and new writing paper just out of its plastic package. His appearance was always so fastidious; I used to imagine that he went through a gigantic starching press with his clothes, as their stiff cleanliness seemed to extend to him. His face and skin looked pristine, and his teeth were sparkly white. He carried himself in a sophisticated manner and was genuinely polite. I looked up to my grandfather very much, and I can proudly say I inherited many of his qualities.
He would always come in our door with a big smile and a hug and would immediately ask me how I was, or what I was doing in school, or if I had done anything interesting recently. He would ask me these questions no matter what age I was and would always pay full attention to my answers. Most adults will pleasantly ask a child those same questions, but when the child answers, the adult will only give a happy little nod and reply with “Uh-huh,” or “Is that so?” This was never the case with my grandpa; he seemed to instinctively know that the typical adult answer wasn’t enough for me, or any child.
I waited at my window for what seemed like hours for him to show up, but my mom told me it had only been ten minutes. I was three years old, so I did what any other child would do in my situation; I sat down in front of the television and watched “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” to pass the time. Mr. Rogers was always so pleasant; he would show me how he fed his fish and tell me that I was special, and he even showed me how crayons were made. He was my first friend outside of my parents and could always console my nerves. He reminded me of my grandpa. Just as Mr. Rogers was putting on his loafers and jacket to go home, there was a