This is a story that I wrote in 1990, when I was 15. It was published in a student anthology at the time.
They were right when they said it would be different after grandpa died. It’s been a year and my life hasn’t – and never will be – the same.
My grandpa was a kind, loving, handsome man. He loved music and dancing. He loved to sing in the church choir every Sunday. But, above all, he loved his grandchildren.
The youngest of 12 children, he grew up just outside of Vanderhoof, British Columbia on a little farm in Chilko. His parents had emigrated from Ireland hoping for a better life in Canada. Times were rough, but they managed. They named their youngest son Arthur Percival (Percy, for short.) Continue reading “I Remember”