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William Morrison Reiach was my grandfather. He was an amazing man who lead an incredible life. He lived to 85 (his birthday being just this passed weekend), served in the British Royal Marines during the second world war, lived in several countries and saw his family grow to the extent of six great grandchildren.
This blog is not going to be very eloquent I'm afraid. I'm simply not coherent enough to coordinate sentences of the right poignancy. I'm sitting here at my keyboard, typing, because I feel I should record the moment before it is swallowed by the duties required of family - should I have any.
I'm in a strange space of time right now. The best way I can describe it is, my bones are hollow, if that makes any sense. I'm not numb, else I wouldn't have shed some tears already, but I'm not weeping mess either. There will be waves of memories, nostalgia and grief that will roll over me. It may get worse before it gets better but eventually it will get to the point where I will remember more good times than grieve. My grandfather is in no pain now. He was very disoriented at the end of his life. Very frail. He's free now. It's us, the living, who are in pain. We grieve because we want our loved ones with us. And not in the 'they're always in your heart' way that you tell young children when they lose their first pet. We want them living and breathing. We want them talking and laughing and joking, don't we? That's why we grieve. We mourn the loss of the person we'll not be able to touch again. I'll mourn, in my own time and my own way. But part of me is relieved. My Grandfather is free from pain, sorrow and burdens. And that alone is something worth giving thanks for.
Who was my grandfather?
He was born and raised in Scotland, and retained the lilt in his voice throughout his entire life.
He ironed every garment he washed - right down to the underthings
I once handed him a pair of socks that I had knit for him. He held them for a few moments, wrinkled his brow in scrutiny and then grinned "This is hand spun wool! This is good stuff." It made me glow inside.
He loved his grouper fingers from the Poop Deck in the Bahamas
He was infinitely proud of "The Craft" also known as the Freemasons, an organization in which he spent 60 years
He would occasionally pepper his dialogue with vocabulary not heard for a generation
He wasn't afraid to give a hearty laugh at a joke or a funny story
He did his best to keep up with the changes in technology, even if he didn't move far beyond floppy disks and scanning
He was the patriarch of a family who loved him dearly and will miss his presence.
This blog is not going to be very eloquent I'm afraid. I'm simply not coherent enough to coordinate sentences of the right poignancy. I'm sitting here at my keyboard, typing, because I feel I should record the moment before it is swallowed by the duties required of family - should I have any.
I'm in a strange space of time right now. The best way I can describe it is, my bones are hollow, if that makes any sense. I'm not numb, else I wouldn't have shed some tears already, but I'm not weeping mess either. There will be waves of memories, nostalgia and grief that will roll over me. It may get worse before it gets better but eventually it will get to the point where I will remember more good times than grieve. My grandfather is in no pain now. He was very disoriented at the end of his life. Very frail. He's free now. It's us, the living, who are in pain. We grieve because we want our loved ones with us. And not in the 'they're always in your heart' way that you tell young children when they lose their first pet. We want them living and breathing. We want them talking and laughing and joking, don't we? That's why we grieve. We mourn the loss of the person we'll not be able to touch again. I'll mourn, in my own time and my own way. But part of me is relieved. My Grandfather is free from pain, sorrow and burdens. And that alone is something worth giving thanks for.
Who was my grandfather?
He was born and raised in Scotland, and retained the lilt in his voice throughout his entire life.
He ironed every garment he washed - right down to the underthings
I once handed him a pair of socks that I had knit for him. He held them for a few moments, wrinkled his brow in scrutiny and then grinned "This is hand spun wool! This is good stuff." It made me glow inside.
He loved his grouper fingers from the Poop Deck in the Bahamas
He was infinitely proud of "The Craft" also known as the Freemasons, an organization in which he spent 60 years
He would occasionally pepper his dialogue with vocabulary not heard for a generation
He wasn't afraid to give a hearty laugh at a joke or a funny story
He did his best to keep up with the changes in technology, even if he didn't move far beyond floppy disks and scanning
He was the patriarch of a family who loved him dearly and will miss his presence.