Eulogy for Grandfather :: Eulogies Eulogy

pean for GrandfatherWhen I was little, if you couldnt find me, I could be anyplace up a tree, chthonian the covers, in the closet, regular hiding in the bath agency where I couldnt be disturbed... but nearly always with a book. Friends even through college would ask how it was that I gobbled up words akin peanut butter. Usually, I would just shrug and say, I cave in no idea where it came from Thinking keep going, though, its so obvious how could I miss it? My GungGung took such an amazing interest in books that one of my tenacious childhood memories is him posing in that armchair in the corner of the Ross pathway house, under a kitty of lamplight, poring over well-nigh biography of a kilobyte pages. My mammy and both uncles used to joke that if an earthquake or chevy hit Palo Alto, my grandpa would never notice, because he would be so confined up in his reading. I used to think, wandering around that Ross Road living room and looking at the shelves overflowing with bo oks, that hopefully some day I would be able to cook corresponding my nan and read thousand-page books like my granddad. I also secretly thought that GungGung moldiness be bursting with words, because so valety went in... but so few came back out. At to the lowest degree when I knew him, he was not a man of many utter words. On occasion, an old friend would stop by, and past I would be astounded by their animated back-and-forth. Usually, though, my grandfather was real quiet. I perceive amazing stories of his studies in Paris, his political involvement in the Young mainland China Party, and his years at the United Nations, but never from him. He never boasted, and I would never know these stories if it werent for my mom and devil uncles, who were so steep of their dad. So much of what I know of my grandfather is pieced together from these stories that have trickled down from relatives and friends, and PoPos photographs that I love to look at. In those, I suck in a wholly different GungGung psyche who wasnt a GungGung yet, someone express emotion tremendously with friends on a beach in Paris (wearing a very fashionable 1920s bathing suit), someone who, as my mom was fond of saying, looked like a Hollywood characterisation star, someone bang a debonair pose in my grandmothers tend with a guitar.Eulogy for Grandfather Eulogies EulogyEulogy for GrandfatherWhen I was little, if you couldnt find me, I could be anywhere up a tree, under the covers, in the closet, even hiding in the bathroom where I couldnt be disturbed... but almost always with a book. Friends even through college would ask how it was that I gobbled up words like peanut butter. Usually, I would just shrug and say, I have no idea where it came from Thinking back, though, its so obvious how could I miss it? My GungGung took such an amazing interest in books that one of my lasting childhood memories is him sitting in that armchair in the corner of the Ross Road house, under a pool of lamplight, poring over some biography of a thousand pages. My mom and two uncles used to joke that if an earthquake or fire hit Palo Alto, my grandfather would never notice, because he would be so wrapped up in his reading. I used to think, wandering around that Ross Road living room and looking at the shelves overflowing with books, that hopefully some day I would be able to cook like my grandmother and read thousand-page books like my grandfather. I also secretly thought that GungGung must be bursting with words, because so many went in... but so few came back out. At least when I knew him, he was not a man of many spoken words. On occasion, an old friend would stop by, and then I would be astounded by their animated back-and-forth. Usually, though, my grandfather was very quiet. I heard amazing stories of his studies in Paris, his political involvement in the Young China Party, and his years at the United Nations, but never from him. He never boasted, and I would never know these stories if it werent for my mom and two uncles, who were so proud of their dad. So much of what I know of my grandfather is pieced together from these stories that have trickled down from relatives and friends, and PoPos photographs that I love to look at. In those, I see a wholly different GungGung someone who wasnt a GungGung yet, someone laughing tremendously with friends on a beach in Paris (wearing a very fashionable 1920s bathing suit), someone who, as my mom was fond of saying, looked like a Hollywood movie star, someone striking a debonair pose in my grandmothers garden with a guitar.