My grandfather’s cigar smoking was a constant source of irritation to his wife, and to many of his friends. One friend recalled that "whenever he had been a few days with us, the whole house had to be aired, for he smoked all over it from breakfast to bedtime. He always went to bed with a cigar in his mouth, and sometimes, mindful of my fire insurance, I went up and took it away, still burning, after he had fallen asleep." On one occasion, my grandfather answered these complaints by claiming only to "smoke in moderation." How so? "Only one cigar at a time!"
Soon after he gave up his dreams of becoming a mountain climber, my grandfather branched out into the field of science.Remarking at the time, that there were ‘few to little gentlemen scientists’ in the world today.
My Grandfather was an inveterate practical joker. Having tried to created his famous "electronic brain" for the Uk government, he dubbed the machine a 'Mathematical Analyser, Numerical Integrater, and Computer'. Several days passed before scientists realized that the name formed a curious anagram: MANIAC.
My grandfather then set about publishing a book warning of technological catastrophes which could kill billions in the following century.Among his fears? That evil amateur scientists could use biotechnology, computers, and nanotechnology to destroy civilization, and that a particle physics project (begun on Long Island in 2000) to create quark-gluon plasma could create a black hole or cause a rip in the space-time continuum."Even if the odds against such a cosmic disaster are vanishingly small," he said (one estimate is one in 50 million) are the potential benefits of the experiment worth risking the worst-case outcome, namely the annihilation of the Earth and the entire universe?"
My grandfather, then offered up his theory on genetics ‘Blue for a boy’ he said ‘and pink for a girl’. Wise wise words I think you’ll agree.
Friday, 24 October 2008
My Grandfather Part the 2nd
In his later years, my grand father was often faced with the prospect of attending the funeral services of his many friends. "I believe," he remarked on one occasion to a fellow mourner, "that this is the last time I'll take part as an amateur."After he gave up his aspirations to become a boxer, he then decided to try his hand at mountain climbing. A noted eccentric, my grandfather often summered in Brussels, Belgium. Why Brussels? My grandfather, for one thing, had developed a peculiar attachment to a certain chair in a particular outdoor cafe. However, he also appreciated Brussels, for another reason. It was well-suited, he explained, to serve as a base from which to organize a mountain-climbing expedition to the highest point in Belgium. "How high is that?" he was asked one day. "Twelve feet," he replied, "above sea level."
After great expense and preparation, my grandfather attempted to scale the 26,000-foot-high Nanga Parbot mountain in Pakistan. He got about halfway up and was eating a Pakistani bread called chapati, which was topped with flour, when the wind blew the flour in his face, causing him to sneeze. It resulted in a pulled back muscle that made further climbing impossible.
While confined to his death bed he remarked to me ‘you know son’, I said yes grandfather, ‘there are far to many sandwich shops at 4 lane ends’, he was right of course, and this was long before they opened a subway.
After great expense and preparation, my grandfather attempted to scale the 26,000-foot-high Nanga Parbot mountain in Pakistan. He got about halfway up and was eating a Pakistani bread called chapati, which was topped with flour, when the wind blew the flour in his face, causing him to sneeze. It resulted in a pulled back muscle that made further climbing impossible.
While confined to his death bed he remarked to me ‘you know son’, I said yes grandfather, ‘there are far to many sandwich shops at 4 lane ends’, he was right of course, and this was long before they opened a subway.
My Grandfather
My grandfather who died in 1985, was an amazing man, he lead a chequered colorful life, but always with a larger than life energy and zeal and love of life. A huge man to a child, and a huge man to other adults. Even at his advanced age, he had still seemed strong and powerful.Until that summer, when we where called to the hospital to see him. I walked into the room his empty eyes were looking right between my two eyes and I knew that although he was with us, he was also very far away locked between the past the present and what future he had remaining, I stood at the foot of his bed.
He didn't say a word.
Then a priest came in the room to make some prayers about death and a new life ahead. My grandfather was very Catholic, I was not and still am not, but all the family participated in the prayers for my grandfather, even me. We stood at his bed side as a family, and as he died and read to him his favorite poem, even then we could see the spark and the resilience in his eyes, a fire born out of conflict, of war, of love, and of family:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
My grandmother cried, tears slowly rolling down her cheek, I was only 10 years old at the time and that was the first time I had saw a man dying, and the first time I recall seeing an adult cry. It was a moving moment.If I may I would like to share some stories of that great man’s life.My grandfather served during world war II at the tender age of only 18, he saw combat during the battle of the bulge in 1944 when American intervention finally turned the tide in favor of the allied forces.
When he returned to civilian life after WW II, he began a career as an amateur boxer, and was good. He stood over 6.2 which for the 50’s was an impressive height, and weighed in excess of 16 stone, a rugged man, not handsome, but in a certain light at a certain angle distingiused.One of his most infamous fights took place in the summer of 1952, when he took on a Canadian boxer by the name of Joe ‘The Bear’ Dante. Back in those days bouts lasted more than 10 rounds, and there was no such thing as a technical knock out.The most memorable thing about the fight of course was the fact that Joe’ The bear’ Dante, was actually a bear. A Kodiak bear to be precise….In the 25th round, my grandfather upset all the odds when he won the fight on a technicality. After Joe went berserk and ate this corner men and his trainer, and most of the front row.
My grandfather sadly never saw any of the fight purse that night as it was needed to pay of grieving widows so they wouldn’t go to the press.Anyway just before his death he imparted to me these wise wise words, ‘son’ he said ‘there are over 1.5 million people in the world (of course this was prior to decimlisation so you got a lot less people to the pound), that’s enough people to stretch to Milton Keynes and back, the only place 1.5 million people wouldn’t want to go’.Tomorrow I’ll tell you all what my grandfather had to say on this death bed about the amount of sandwich shops at 4 lane ends.
He didn't say a word.
Then a priest came in the room to make some prayers about death and a new life ahead. My grandfather was very Catholic, I was not and still am not, but all the family participated in the prayers for my grandfather, even me. We stood at his bed side as a family, and as he died and read to him his favorite poem, even then we could see the spark and the resilience in his eyes, a fire born out of conflict, of war, of love, and of family:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
My grandmother cried, tears slowly rolling down her cheek, I was only 10 years old at the time and that was the first time I had saw a man dying, and the first time I recall seeing an adult cry. It was a moving moment.If I may I would like to share some stories of that great man’s life.My grandfather served during world war II at the tender age of only 18, he saw combat during the battle of the bulge in 1944 when American intervention finally turned the tide in favor of the allied forces.
When he returned to civilian life after WW II, he began a career as an amateur boxer, and was good. He stood over 6.2 which for the 50’s was an impressive height, and weighed in excess of 16 stone, a rugged man, not handsome, but in a certain light at a certain angle distingiused.One of his most infamous fights took place in the summer of 1952, when he took on a Canadian boxer by the name of Joe ‘The Bear’ Dante. Back in those days bouts lasted more than 10 rounds, and there was no such thing as a technical knock out.The most memorable thing about the fight of course was the fact that Joe’ The bear’ Dante, was actually a bear. A Kodiak bear to be precise….In the 25th round, my grandfather upset all the odds when he won the fight on a technicality. After Joe went berserk and ate this corner men and his trainer, and most of the front row.
My grandfather sadly never saw any of the fight purse that night as it was needed to pay of grieving widows so they wouldn’t go to the press.Anyway just before his death he imparted to me these wise wise words, ‘son’ he said ‘there are over 1.5 million people in the world (of course this was prior to decimlisation so you got a lot less people to the pound), that’s enough people to stretch to Milton Keynes and back, the only place 1.5 million people wouldn’t want to go’.Tomorrow I’ll tell you all what my grandfather had to say on this death bed about the amount of sandwich shops at 4 lane ends.
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