The Old Man

A story by Joshua Blandford about his grandfather ... Geoffrey Ray Dreadon

[In terms of geneology .. Geoff was Joshua's step-grandfather. Geoff married Joshua's paternal grandmother .. Barbara]

The sleek expertly crafted handle reflected the bright mid-January sun. The metal wove its way into a deep brown mahogany shaft. It rested against a large and wrinkled hand, sitting on the horrible floral patterned arm of a swivel chair. Black dirt engraved under the fingernails; a result of endless tinkering with mucky antique guns. The veins and wrinkles all combined to make the hands own rocky mountain range. The rocky cliffs were swallowed whole by a brown cross checked cotton shirt which tucked in neatly to a pair of beige trousers.

His eyes cast out across what is now land covered in semi-industrial factories. The thin wisps of pearl white hair flicked in the gentle breeze. He closed his eyes and used his memory to take out and replace the missing pieces of the "spot the difference" puzzle. Now the man's eyes met with plush, rolling green farmland. Cattle and sheep stood en mass, in great numbers, enclosed by fences. In the distance a white windmill stood proud, atop a small hill. Under it, the outline of four young boys playing.

To his left he saw an old, dusty dirt road. There was an army platoon of hay bales standing neatly in line, being munched on by three bronze coloured horses. Looking up there was a clear blue stain glass window hanging in the sky. The fresh smells of his wife's baking hung pleasantly in the still air heightening his senses. The man then saw himself; young and fit. He was robust and strong, his lean cage like silhouette roasting in the heat. Beads of sweat settled on his temples and dripped onto the rusty orange spade he was using to dig up the earth. It all combined to make an amazing impressionist painting, full of colours and silent sounds; texture and motionless life.

It had been long since those days. His beloved wife grew old with him before she passed on. His four sons had grown up and found their own places of peace and tranquillity. They eventually had sons and daughters of their own, making the man a grandfather.

The man himself was now left, fragile and brittle, however not left alone or unhappy. He was thankful for that. One by one the activities he so much loved became too strenuous to complete. Drenching, docking and harvesting were among the first to go. His bones and muscles gradually lost their strength and became frail and weak. Now he struggled to even make wooden toy trucks and trains for his much loved grand children.

"Show me how to use the spinning top, grandpa" I asked.

He took it from my small smooth hand into his larger rough one. He examined his work closely, running his eyes over the cleverly crafted joints of the simple object. The grain ran smooth underneath the glassy varnish. Like him the spinning top would age and change with time. It would chip and lose its shiny coating. Its rope would fray and split; the joints would open and crack. Eventually it would become too old, too chipped, too fragile. It would be put away and be replaced by a younger, shinier version than itself.

"Maybe one last time" he replied.