Grandpa's Birthday

We had a great time with Sarah, Bill's youngest, her husband and their toddler, Struan, this past weekend. I get the name 'Grandma Shelley', which is indeed an honour. I tried to tell Bill what contentment I got from Struan's reaching out to hold hands as he walks - still a bit unsteady - and from pushing him in his swing at the park. Bill doesn't seem to differentiate being my getting to be a grandma - which I'm not - and my getting to do Grandma things, which is how I see it. It was great fun. Never mind about all that, Gareth was still able to pretend he's interested in the story about my Dad's adoption and I found myself explaining why I could believe he was adopted: Grandma and Grandpa were the only normal people in my family, so of course it makes sense we aren't genetically related.

I was thinking of Grandpa earlier last week when I donned an old flannel shirt to go out blackberry picking, or 'brambling' as some folks call it. The shirt belonged to a previous husband and gets dragged out for hair colouring, house painting and other rough work, which is not to say I don't value the fabric. If I didn't it would have been burned long ago. Oxford shoes, woollen trousers and checked flannel shirts were Grandpa's winter uniform.

Grandpa's careful thrift, his endless patience and his tidy ways are still ideals to which I strive (when I'm not trying to channel my Mom's artistry or Grandmother's outspokenness). Also, it turns out, his super-strength - I must have exhausted him and Grandma when I came along! Bill and I slept most of the next two days after they returned to Edinburgh.

Back of photo: "Jack at Idlewild"