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Cool grandfathers.
Drez
Registered User regular
Registered User regular
So my grandfather loved to fish, was in World War II, and washed windows for a living - something I could never do. He used to window-wash skyscrapers in New York City. He was hardcore. But skinny. He hated onions, and his father was a real fuckhead. He ran away from home multiple times and essentially did what he could to survive and eventually build a family for himself. He used to yell at me because I didn't want to bait my own line.
Thread as asked.
Thread as asked.
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My mother's father died when I was eight and I don't have many memories of him, but I know he was the solidest of cats. He was a photographer in WW2. He pretty much raised my brother, who in turn pretty much raised me, so me being totally awesome can be traced back to him.
Hi-fives, old dead dudes.
He told one of the guards there that he sounded like Donald Duck, which the guard took as a compliment, but when he actually saw a Donald Duck cartoon he threw a brick at my grandpa.
My other grandpa played for the San Francisco 49'ers.
My Grandpa burnt down his father's barn and was beaten mercilessly. He also rescued my grandmother from the craziest conditions ever.
My grandma's father was an alcoholic. He was kind of a nut. He murdered his brother over a small bet and took his family on the run. They were squatting in a cottage in south carolina. One night when my grandmother was going to sleep (she was like 10), she woke up and saw a black guy bending over her, inches from covering her mouth (he was going to kidnap her). She yelled and he bolted out the window.
The next night my murderin' great grandpa set up a shotgun with fishing line and a pully to the window. He used my grandma as bait. When the guy opened the window, he got his head blown off his shoulders with a shotgun round.
My grandma still sleeps with the light on.
One time her dad put a bullet in his revolver and played Russian Roulette with him and his kids. My Grandpa ran in and knocked his drunked butt over and ran away with my grandma. They were married shortly thereafter. She was 13, he was 17.
STEAM!
My other grandpa fought as a guerilla when MacArthur left the Philippine islands. He also had some hardcore stories. He also loved his whiskey and beer. My last memory of him was coming home in the Philippines half drunk and covered in blood from a fight. He's the man who introduced me to porn, through such fine magazines as Swank and Hustler. I wasn't there when he died, and I wish I could have told him how awesome he was one last time.
He died when my Mother was 4 years old. He was raiding lobster traps with his buddies in the middle of February. One of the lobstermen spotted them messing with the merchandise and probably fired off a few rounds at them, prompting my grandfather and his buddies to dive off the boat for cover under water. The bodies of the two friends were found with their life preservers on. My grandfather was too much of a badass to bother with life preservers (probably didn't believe in seat-belts either) and his body was never recovered.
Ocean water in Maine is fucking COLD if you didn't know that. Even in the summer. This was FEBRUARY
I have an old black and white photo of my grandfather sitting next to a 57 Chevy. I look exactly like him with the exception that I have dark hair and it isn't done up in some 50's dew. I'm also 6'3". He lives on.
When he enlisted in the army he wrote 18 on a piece of paper and stuck it in his shoe. So that way when he swore that he was over 18, he was actually standing over an 18. He was 17 when he enlisted.
He would keep tabs on my grandmother when they first started dating. Not so much stalking, but if she was approached by someone unsavory he was there to tear their head off.
He walked the high steal building skyscrapers in NY.
He was one of the first inspectors on I-95 running from the canadian border to the DE side of the Del-mem-br.
The man tought himself to play harmonica and then when I stood up during my jazz/rock band concert to play a solo on the tenor sax or harmonica he would swell with visiable pride.
It's alright to just sit and be quiet was something I learned from him. Same with chivalry.
He played baseball on a minor minor league team out of Pelham Park in the Bronx.
When they moved to "upstate" NY he took over running a deli. Since he always had a love for dogs he had a HUGE black lab named Schwaza (I'm misspelling it) while he wasn't a racist and was well respected in the neighborhood schwaza is the german equivalant of the n-bomb. Him yelling it down the street when the dog would run away is a story still told in the neighborhood.
He was chief of the Nyack NY volunteer fire department and wore the uniform with pride and honor.
And if I could tell him one story it would be that after his funeral we all walked down the street to the local bar where we had reserved a back room. We ate, drank and told stories. At one point we were laughing and carrying on so loud that we were asked to be quiet by the rest of the bar because they couldn't hear the football game. I love you.
And god..I'm crying.
Wow.
He was a foul-mouthed, chain smoking smartass with a big belly but arms that looked like they could bend steel. He had narcolepsy really bad, so sometimes you would be sitting at dinner and would look over to see him with a cigarette in his mouth, the ash ready to fall out since he'd been passed out for three minutes.
He would also fall asleep in the middle of talking to you and when he woke up he would either start from exactly where he'd left off or pick up the current conversation like he'd been paying attention the whole time.
My one distinct memory of him was coming into the kitchen riding on his shoulders after my first haircut ever. My mom was mortified that he'd cut my hair without asking her and he answered by saying, "My grandson is not going to walk around looking like some faggot."
His nickname for my mother was Susie Q. It infuriated her because this was also a reference from his navy days; apparently Susie Q translated to "asian whore" in one of the wars he fought.
Everyone in my family is/was a closeted alcoholic except for this man. As far back as my dad can remember the dude never touched a beer, which given the rest of his history leads us to believe he probably used to be quite the drunk. However, he drank Coca-Cola out of the bottle like it was a religion.
On his deathbed, my mom took care of him. He never changed his ways throughout dying of cancer. One of my aunts came over one day to try to get him to stop smoking and after listening to her diatribe on the matter for five minutes, he took a deep puff and called her a stupid bitch.
I'll probably post more later about his early history and stuff; this is really more of a set-up for what a badass the man had truly been in his life.
Secret Satan 2013 Wishlist
Damn man, I almost am too.
That man sounded fuckawesome. I didn't know my paternal grandfather too well other than I get my looks, my height, my twisted sense of humor, and my knack for learning languages from him.
On the mother's side, though he still lives, I know very little about him. Other than he drank nothing but beer, was in the Navy, and lived through the Depression. I really need to go visit him and just talk to him.
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I didn't see that and even so you were taking too fucking long and people were shitting up the other thread with grandpa stories. Considering that managed to stay on topic for 34 pages, forgive me if I don't cry you a river for not having the first post. If you want, I'll edit your tribute into the first post here. Would that make you feel better?
The moment has passed.
He died when my mom was 7.
She got a new kitten for her birthday, and was playing with it outside.
It scurried about eight feet up a crabapple tree, and wouldn't come down.
Grandad climbed up the tree, grabbed the kitten, but then lost his footing.
He fell out of the little tree, and landed on his neck - killing him instantly.
Right in the front yard, on my mom's seventh birthday.
And yes, the kitten was fine.
Lets see who knows what that was.
It's right here, actually ->
Try not to step on it please.
Google knows!
Holy Heavens
This thread
This thread here
Is depressing
This poor guy was probably trying to rescue her from that twisted bastard.
Secret Satan
Right now, as I'm typing this, I'm wearing my grandpa's old ring.
My grandma tearfully put this in my hands on Friday.
I've heard my grandpa is naked for about 80% of the day, even when he is outside.
STEAM!
My aunt and dad were going back and forth like siblings do when my aunt made some below the belt comment about my dad being a hippy liberal and a disgrace to the family because he didn't want to go enlist (she had enlisted because she didn't have anything else going for her). My dad told her to keep her mouth shut and let it go and she pressed the point. And pressed it. And kept going until my dad was red in the face and muttered out something about my aunt's boyfriend cheating on her.
My aunt screeched like a cat, took the towel she'd been using to wipe the dishes, and whipped my dad clean across the face with it.
More embarrassed than hurt, my dad turned bright red and jumped to his feet so fast that he turned the chair over, angrily shouting "Dad, this time I'm kicking her ass.", then making a leap at his sister.
In the time it took my dad to yell and make a grab for his sister, my grandpa had ditched the paper and cigarette, jumped to his feet, grabbed my dad around the waist, lifted him clean up into the air, and threw him through the kitchen and into the living room. My grandfather and subsequently my father have a no-exceptions tolerance for hitting women.
My dad remembered thanking God he was alive and slowly becoming aware that the only thing which had kept him from going through the wall was a large eazy-boy, which now lay in pieces underneath his bruised body. Looking up, he saw his father towering over him, not breathing heavily in the least, doing nothing but glaring an evil hole into my dad before opening his mouth to say,
"Look what you did to your mother's chair."
jk - he totally bit the dust. But he was a political powerhouse in Cincinnati, as well as a lieutenant colonel in the Air Force, and also did some CIA work upon his leaving the AF.
My grandfather on my mothers side was a senior VP with GE and worked all over North and South America, and personally met Ronald Reagan when he became the spokesperson for GE. I also know that he faught in the Korean War, but he wont talk about that. I know that he was a hill gunner, and that they were ambushed, and that he killed a bunch of communists, but that's about it.
But I know that the one on my Dad's side is fairly kind and the other one is kind of a jerk.
Secret Satan
STEAM!
I feel like an ungreatful cunt right now. Thats probly not far off though.
Jordan of Elienor, Human Shaman
He died in early december of cancer..
You're drawn to my eccentric Brawl Code: 4596 9143 4529
My grandfather is also kickass. He has his issues (generally with some anger and pent up emotions) but he elected to raise me because my parents were worthless. This earns a huge hi5.
These two are on my mother's side. My father's father is an ex-Marine. POW, Purple Heart from his time in Korea. He was in law enforcement all his life, and as such I get away with anything when I'm in my home town. He's still alive, but he's divorced my grandma and married some other lady. He doesn't talk to anyone anymore.
World War II Victory Medal, doesn't get much cooler than that. I wish I had a WWII Victory Medal.
My paternal grandfather grew up during the depression. He served in Korea as a radio man. Earned a bronze star. He took damn good care of my father and uncles and aunt despite the family not being the most wealthy of people. Worked in a box factory until retirement and now spends his days wheeling around a a care center/nursing home/whatever the hell you call it. Fucking Alzheimers...
Maternal grandfather I don't know much about, except that he divorced my grandmother before I was born and married the most annoying bitch of a human being I have ever met.
My fathers father was an engineer who had to move the family several times because of his job. He was a nice guy who loved his books. He was also rather paranoid. His father was an engineer on the Manhattan Project.
It was a simple transfer, one prisoner, and my grandpa was only alone with the man for a minute or so on the elevator. However, someone hadn't done a thorough enough search, because the prisoner had somehow snuck out a knife. After the elevator seals up, the guy slips out the knife, hits the emergency stop on the elevator, and tries to go at my grandpa with the blade.
Guessing that going for the gun would leave him too vunerable, my grandpa boxing style put up his arms to keep the blows from his face and body, in the process receiving a hail of knife wounds all along his upper arms which were not letting up. Rather than chancing going for the gun and receiving a crippling injury, my grandpa instead moved towards his attacker, cornering him while still receving slice after slice to his arms.
He finally cornered the guy against the corner of the elevator where the knife won't be of any use and gets the thing away from him completely. But the dude is throwing punches, refusing to call it quits and now trying to go for my grandfather's gun. So my grandpa, his arms probably resembling cuts of meat at this point, beats the everliving shit out of him and keeps going until he's unconcious. My grandpa was also a former boxer (you could tell because his nose looked like it had been broken twenty-some times).
The prisoner ended up in the hospital in critical condition. I think he lived, but I'm not sure. The court martial came against my grandfather because the military court deemed his actions "use of excessive force". They cited this because of how the elevator had been basically painted in blood from the fight.
My grandpa usually laughed at this point in the story, smoked his cigarette and said, "Those fucking morons couldn't put two and two together to realize that the reason there was blood everywhere is because it was all my blood."