For Grandad.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been traipsing through the hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of photographs Grandad miscellaneously treasured over his lifetime.

There’s the many from his childhood spent donkey riding and sand car racing in Blackpool with his sister, Win; even as a wee boy, and regardless of how ill-kept the photo may be, his mischievous grin is so easy to spot in a blurry crowd of many.

There’s also bucket loads from his time in Changi and Sembawang, Singapore, as a Technician Ground Wireless Fitter in the Royal Air Force; even in black and white, the stark contrast between his tanned skin and grey/blue eyes jumps out of each photograph. There was seldom a moment where he wasn’t able to reminisce on his life well lived abroad with the RAF, though his stories of the Singaporean nurses he met along the way could’ve definitely gone amiss once or twice.

Throughout the many hours I’ve spent trawling through his life in photos, there was a tiny part of me that was a little wary of what I may unearth; Grandad lived so many lives in his 90 years, I was half expecting to find one he hadn’t gotten round to sharing. But that wasn’t the case at all. From the crinkled black and white 1940’s film, all the way through to his discovery of Snapchat filters, my perusing has only offered reassurance of the fact that he was always the man I knew, even before I knew him. In many, I look out for him among the friendly faces he knew and loved, only to find an empty chair from which he’d abandoned to capture everyone but himself; always behind the camera and rarely in front. And in the few he was captured in, there aren’t many where he fails to pull one of his myriad of daft and goofy faces. ‘Better to make people laugh than cry’, as he so often said.

As the collection of photographs gets younger, however, around the late 50’s, there’s a subtle shift. Within the tome’s worth taken after he met Jean, my beautiful Nana, you realise none til then captured him quite as content. Even more so after my incredible mum, Paula, was born. John lived and loved his life to the fullest at every opportunity, but those photographs of his wife, daughter, and grandchildren radiate a warmth when holding them that can only be understood as a reflection of his profound love and devotion to his family.

Though I may be able to count all of us on one hand, my grandad’s duty to and love for my nana, my mum, my brother, and myself were enough to make us feel as though we were the biggest family on the block, and certainly the luckiest. He shielded us from harm with his wealth of knowledge and one-liners; there was little he didn’t know how to mend, and nothing he wasn’t willing to learn how - ‘Grandad fix it’, were the three words most commonly strung together in our house, second only to ‘I love you’.

That was Grandad. An incredibly proud man with an irrefutably humble character. Never one of few words, but often of few that made sense. Always quick with his wit, but sincere with his smile. Forever wanting to help others, but seldom willing to take credit.

Indeed, as many will have experienced first hand, John carried this insatiable need to help others everywhere he went. And as many may also know, this often meant he carried with him an entire tool box and then some in his coat pockets… A valve for a radio that was discontinued over 20 years ago, a fuse for an appliance no one uses - ‘you never know when they may come in handy’… It was certainly likely that airport security feared him, and Mary Poppins’ bag definitely envied him.

Though, many may not know the ways in which his kindness stretched and fed into the everyday. There was usually no evidence of Grandad having visited the house whilst we’d be away at work, that is until you realise the light switch you’ve been complaining about is no longer faulty and that one creaky floorboard is suddenly silent.

I’ve never met anyone else who’s quite as selfless as he was - usually, there’s at least a little egocentricity in people’s altruism, even if it’s just the yearning for that warm feeling when their kindness is recognised. Grandad hid from the recognition, though. Pushed it away as if it was dangerously contagious. In fact, he actually got upset if we foregrounded his generosity, as if he would’ve much preferred we fantasised on the prospect of elves having checked our smoke alarms and fixed our TV remotes whilst we’d been away, leaving no trace but the ease of everyday life.

And my nana, stoic and shy and intelligent as ever, looked at him with love incomparable to how any Shakespearean item would.

I may never have a diploma in Pianoforte Playing from the London College of Music. I may never know how to mend my own broken watch faces and solder others’ flimsy necklace chains back together. And I certainly won’t ever be able to so effortlessly lighten a room’s heavy mood with a quick joke or playful jig. No shoulder will feel as strong to rest upon, no hug as tight to fall into. And, certainly no man who’d so naturally take the place of my father without ever trying to.

It’d be a lie to say I’ve come to terms with this already, the omni-apparent and gaping hole my Grandad’s passing has left. But I do understand its place in our lives; we cherish the pain in the memories of what once was and may never be as testaments of the love we shared and the man he was.

‘He was the kind of man who was so lovely, you thought he’d live forever’. Those are the words of a family friend that I’ve held close with me during these last few weeks. They pair nicely with the belief underpinning many religions, philosophies, and sciences - be it Christianity, Buddhism, or Quantum Physics - that no energy may be created or destroyed.

My grandad may be gone, and the hole he has left may always be gaping, but I choose to believe he and his energy live on through all who had the privilege of knowing him. They live on when we choose to help our peers, even if it may be at our own expense or indeed unrequested. They live on when we predict others’ needs before they even come to need them. They live on as we choose to give when knowing we may never receive. When we vote for kindness in a world full of spite. When we choose gratitude for what has been over regret for what has not. And when we opt to see ourselves as successful and wealthy, not by the notes in our wallets, but in the love and laughter we share.

Grandad may be gone, but the people he made us live on and so he lives on within us.