#Happy birthday gramps how to

But last fall, as my family looked through his desk and old files, we came across some stories, including “ Charlie the Cougar,” and it made me realize I’d learned a lot from him in writing, too, somehow. I don’t remember Grampa being much of a writer, except for his Gumphy story tapes at Christmas, which were more ad-lib than planning, probably. I still can’t quite emulate his exact phrasing- it was truly all his own. He never changed, and never seemed to mind. He put as many measures into the songs he sang as he felt like doing in the moment, and it always kept me on my toes. Playing music with Grampa made me a more observant and uh… flexible musician. I also learned from Grampa that a camera is a good shield at large gatherings – it makes you look busy, so people are less likely to chat you up, it keeps people from taking your photo, and it makes you see the world differently. But we’d go on walks and he’d stop and take photos and show us which ones he liked and after a while you could get a sense of what looked good and what didn’t.

#Happy birthday gramps how to

I don’t remember specifically getting drawing tips from him, or learning how to compose a good photo. I think I learned so much by osmosis from Grampa. He could transform an ordinary, graphite-streaked kneaded eraser into a funny little mouse, with big ears and a long tail. I’m pretty sure Grampa was the one who showed my sister and me how we could turn our last name (his, too) into a goofy smiley face, using the double “o” as the eyes. Sharpies were for making signs at cartoon shows, for writing block letter fonts, for drawing smiley faces. He could bring a little cartoon animal to life with a few quick strokes – thick around the ears, small and sharp for the whiskers. The smell of Sharpies takes me right to Grampa. Grampa taught me how to do the “match trick,” where you pretend to wrap a string around the head of a burnt match, then flick the hidden end with your thumbnail to make it seem as if the “string” pulled the burned end off. He’s probably the root of my being a pyromaniac, much to my parents’ chagrin, I’m sure. Fresh firewood, or Sharpie markers, brown vintage coffee mugs, or binoculars. (Side note: before I offend my gramma, I should probably thank her for the thankless job of always doing the dishes! 😉)Ĭertain objects always bring Grampa to mind. Soon, someone would bustle in and start washing dishes or ask a question and disrupt our collective reverie, so I savored them while I could. Maybe a quiet comment about a jay that had just landed on the seed-strewn barrel on the deck. He didn’t need to explain that a good way to spend a morning was with a cup of coffee in a sunny spot, a good view of the birds out back with a pair of binoculars close by. He didn’t need to chat your ear off about anything, and in fact, some of my favorite memories are of him and my dad and I sitting in the kitchen, not talking.Ī sip of coffee here, a scratching of a pencil there. He was a teacher by trade for many years, but I think he was also adept at teaching by example. But my life wouldn’t have been the same without Gramps. We didn’t get to visit much, and most of the visits were saturated with beloved cousins or spent with Gramma. Instead, I have a thousand snapshots - vague memories of normal times spent with Grampa being Grampa. I wish I had the sort of childhood memories that lend themselves to neat, linear storytelling – the kind that’s funny and warm and maybe a bit sentimental, but poignant and thought-provoking.īut my brain doesn’t work like that. He shares it with his adopted home state of Oregon, and the date is apropos for the amount of love I have for both. Today, Valentine’s Day ‘22, would have been my Grampa Snook’s 86th birthday, and it’s our first without him.