From all the men in my life, I can clearly state that my granddad was my favorite ( except for my sons, but that is different relationship). He was my mother’s father and had a farm. Every Sunday we ventured out to the country and freedom was at the touch of my fingertips.


Nice Sunday clothes were switched for old “play clothes”, and for that one day I was allowed to get dirty and gritty to the bone.

Afterwards Vim –they had no Cif at the time—was needed to scrub me clean.


But I always had a blast of a time. I was mostly left to my own devices in the mornings, playing with the dogs and cats, taking the Belgian shepherd for a walk, checking out he rabbits and their babies. Annoying the cows and the sheep, and spending a lot of time with the horse Oliva, my favorite.


My imagination also ran wild when at the farm. You remember the TV series Daktari? About the Safari doctor with the cross-eyed lion Clarence and the chimpanzee Judy? Well that was one of my games I played. And then there was Black Beauty, the bike that my granddad made for me from old bike parts, serving as my beautiful black horse coming to the rescue—don’t ask what I was rescuing--J


After playing these games and a good lunch ( being on a farm makes you very hungry), my granddad would clean up, and then we would both jump on our bikes and off we went into the wide world. Long bike trips we used to make, with his favorite stopovers ( read small town café’s) , me getting a coke, lemonade or an ice cream, he drinking his ice cold beers.


Sunday was the highlight of my week. Especially in summer, when days were longer and hotter, which always meant more playtime, and longer bike rides. And more dirt to get rid of J.


My granddad always had a young man’s spirit, up until the day when he fell during the night and was only found early in the morning by my uncle bringing him breakfast, completely ice cold and suffering from a stroke. He never got well again and a few months later he passed away. He simply gave up. He was not the person to be put in an old people’s home. As soon as he knew he was never going home again, it was good for him. He knew he’d had a good long life, most of in it  in good health. So he silently let go and went to his final sleep.


I wish I could go back once more to those summer days when  the two of us together were on one of our rides, enjoying the silence and the hard work when going uphill, him often pushing me along.  And then coming home and having a late night snack of home made French fries with eggs. How enjoyed that simple life, how I admired that simple man, who enjoyed being alive and surrounded by his kids and grandkids. I still miss him. It will be nine years since he passed away on father’s day. I love you Granddad!


19:21 Gepost door Crisje in Good Old Times | Permalink | Commentaren (0) |  Facebook |

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