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.