My grandfather was seventy when I was born. He died when I
was nine.
He had a tattoo on one forearm, like two hands clasped as
though shaking hand. They represented hands across the sea, I think it as him
that told me that. There were also the words I Love GP. My grandmother’s
initials. After spending years in the
noisy environments as a stoker on board ships he was very deaf, but would always
respond to my childish command of ‘read to me’ when I climbed on his lap when I
was a pre-schooler. I didn’t matter what he read, just that he did. I like to
think it is from him that I get my love of books and reading.
He would tease us on weekends and school holidays saying ‘school te-rmorra’ and I can still hear
the ‘London’ of his voice.
He was a smoker, though I don’t remember him actually smoking.
He would though collect the buts and soak them to make type if insect spray for
the vegies. Did he garden in an
allotment back in England? I will never know, but he did tend the garden in NZ.
On almost a quarter acre section there was a lot of room for a garden. He would
spend hours sieving out the oxalis bulbs. The little plants grew rampant in the
warm NZ soil, her n the UK it is a small decorative garden plant.
At the very end of the garden near the boundary fence was a large
lemon tree. I always remember it loaded with the fat juicy fruit that gave up
its tart juice to be poured over Mum’s wafer thin pancakes. Sprinkled with sugar,
they were delicious. Mmmmm my mount is
watering at the very thought. I have never been able to make my pancakes taste
the same. Anyway, back tot eh lemon tree. There was a great commotion one morning
when he discovered that every single lemon had been stolen from the tree. We
never did find out who took them.
Granddad kept his birds in a shed halfway down the backyard.
Screeching budgies. Blue and green. He bred the noisy birds, I don’t know what
he did with most of their offspring. One though, a chubby green and yellow bird
with a blue cere was our family pet. A cere is the fleshy bit across the top of
the beak and it is blue for boys.
The birds name was Noddy. He was finger tame and would be let out to fly
around the room. If he landed on your shoulder he would nuzzle up to your neck.
Noddy loved sugar, and if the sugar bowl was on the table when he landed he would
hop up onto the rim and help himself. Proffer him a sugar coated finger and he would
nibble away at it tickling the skin where his sharp beak touched. He could give
you a nasty nip though if a finger was poked into his cage too often.
Granddad, with the patience of a saint had taught Noddy to
wolf whistle and say ‘pretty boy’
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