My grandfather’s name was Estel, but my grandmother called him Ed. He was a funny, lovable man and of all the people in my life, he was one who helped shape me into what I am today — a storyteller.
I grew up listening to delightful tales at my grandpa’s knee, and while he was chronicling his magical life-and-times, I would see him with a musical instrument or pruning shears in his hand. He was a musician and nature-lover. He adored cardinals, but they were always called redbirds at Grandpa’s house. I still call them redbirds.
There are many things my Grandpa taught me during my visits with him. To this day, I don’t know if some of those yarns were true or if they came from somewhere deep in the charismatic imagination of my childhood hero. It would be easy to uncover the truth with search engines such as Google at my fingertips, but why destroy the magical bubble he created with all those years of anecdotes? You see, my grandfather died in the ’80’s. Remembering his stories keeps him alive in my memory and retelling those tales to my children brings him to life again, if only briefly.
No matter how many years pass, my heart is always fragile over the loss of my Grandpa. I hope he can see me down here and that he’d be pleased that I’m passing on all of his wonderful adventures in story-form to my children. I hope he’s equally pleased that I’m telling a few of my own.