Hi there. I'm a senior in high school taking a college writing class. This essay was written by me for the assignment of writing an essay about a person who has been significant in my life. I'm new at posting on here but any here goes, any help would be greatly appreciated, thanks.
An Uncommon Family Tree Bud
The essence of the relationship between grandfather and grandson is rooted deep in the fundamentals consisting of time spent together, memories, and the passing of wisdom from the elder to him of the younger generation. Common generalizations might lead one to thinking that this blend of two men from each end of the age spectrum can only mix harmoniously under the condition that the two share bloodlines. However, certain predicaments can forge a family-like relationship between unrelated people. Amidst our agreements on good food and a passion for Minnesota sports teams lies a stronger common denominator between Ron and me: his family includes no children or grandchildren, while mine is lacking in grandparents.
The acquaintance began to form when I was around the age of five years old. Ron and my dad, both active members in the Cattlemen's Association at the time, congregated at our home many a night to sift through figures and discuss business agenda. Although he was always congenial and personable with me, at that time Ron only represented another body in the house. A big body. I remember peering through the doorway of my dad's office to steal glimpses of the man in his late fifties whose appearance sent my young imagination wild. The majority of the three-hundred pounds that make up Ron's body are stashed in a preposterously immense torso. The button-up plaid shirts that pose as the cornerstone of his fatigues were intensely taut against his
entire upper body. Equally tight were the black suspenders that sunk down and nearly disappeared in his gut, only to show themselves near the shoulder region.
In time, the visits to our house transcended the corporate level to one more personal. Every time one of my siblings and I marked another birthday, Ron and his wife, Rose, having few commitments holding them down, would make the trek to our home to celebrate the occasion. Ron would put aside his reading glasses and cattle feedlot data and instead arrive equipped with ten dollar bills tucked inside children's birthday cards. The conventional gifts were received with sometimes eccentric, but always thought-provoking bits of counsel. "Don't go saving that money now," he would advise me in a way that I perceived as joking, although his serious demeanor did not give substance to the idea, "Get rid of it. Spend it, boy."
Through those parties centering around a living room table blanketed with angel food cake, ice cream, and meat and cheese trays, Ron brought out a more outgoing side in me. He told innumerable tales around that table, some believable, others more difficult to comprehend. No matter what, though, the stories invariably yanked cackles out through my usually reserved mouth. I was mesmerized each time he recalled a prank from his adolescent memories. Besides planting ideas in me to reenact his escapades of outhouse tipping and schoolyard one-liners that went one step too far with teachers, these epics sprang a confidence in me to make my own attempts at sharing my thoughts with Ron and also amusing him.
My cousins, slightly older and hardly more mature than me, would often descend with my siblings and me below the party to the basement, where we would prepare to create a rip roar of laughter in Ron upon going back to the living room by dressing
ourselves in outrageously out of place outfits. Mullet wigs, old-fashioned clothes and hats, and shoes made for the opposite gender were never beyond the reach of our limits of dignity when it came to impressing Ron. No matter how repetitious the displays became, his guffaws never ceased to manifest sincere joy and fondness for our comical routines. Ron enjoyed every second of those parties, regardless of what sort of entertainment we provided him.
At this point in my life, my family tree included three living grandparents. I never went looking for facsimile ones, because there was no need to. Subconsciously, however, Ron always had the look and feel of a grandfather in my life. He talked to me with the same concern and bias towards me that grandpas use on their grandchildren. It seemed that everywhere I went with Ron, he found someone he knew and made conversation often focusing on something I had done well that he thought was worth mentioning. All those times, he never tried to imply to the people that we were related, but never voluntarily explained that we were simply friends, either.
Throughout my years of maturing, Ron has truly been a steady support in my life and has taken the initiative to witness my activities along the way. He has remained no less dedicated as a spectator of me wearing a high school athletics uniform as he once was while watching me don outlandish dress-up clothes. At the age of seventy with occasionally questionable knees, Ron is not competent to travel to a great deal of my
basketball games. However, not a season goes by in which I don't see him coming through the gym doors at least once via the shuffling, choppy gate that seems the only adequate way to maneuver his burly frame. Although an open skeptic of substandard things such as poor market prices and slimy politicians, Ron always displays complete patience with games in which I perform poorly and couples that with an excited account of the fine points of my better games. After one my most productive games as a sophomore, Ron showcased his bias for me. "Twelve points! The Timberwolves need to sign you up soon!" To me, that pleasure that Ron got out of me playing well was worth just as much another tally in the win column for my team.
Two summers ago, I lost my last grandparent. The empty feeling that accompanied the realization that I was suddenly without a grandpa or grandma also brought to light the importance of Ron that I had subconsciously felt for over ten years. I then understood that although I'd never confronted the fact before, he'd been a grandfather-figure to me through all those years, and the importance of the birthday parties, stories, and his appearances at my games immediately became more meaningful. Likewise, I was able to comprehend the way Ron felt about me, as well, having never had a person to call his grandson.
Perhaps the most special moment I've experienced involving Ron since the death was last spring during a varsity golf meet. Ron had previously insisted that I inform him of the date of a meet that would be taking place soon near his home. I obliged with an initial feeling of reluctance, for high school golf is a relatively low-attendance sport, with
the slim galleries typically comprised of only parents. Midway through my first hole, however, I dispelled any notion that having Ron there would be embarrassing. Rather,
his presence gave a familiar and calm feeling to my psyche in a competition where I usually would feel none of the two. I wasn't even ashamed of the fact that my spectator followed me through the fairways on the cushioned bench of an E-Z Go golf cart, instead of walking, as galleries most often do. Laziness played no part in Ron's decision, however, as it was caused by an ailing right knee due for surgery in a few months. With that trademark patience and enthusiasm, my bystander witnessed me take just thirty-eight strokes to get through the nine-hole round. The score was my best ever at the time, and one shot shy of the school record.
I might have convinced myself of just how much Ron means to me on the sixth hole of that round. As I stood on the tee box with my foursome of varsity competitors from various schools, one player turned and gestured toward the gigantic man climbing a tarred incline with visible difficulty on a club golf cart of just slightly more horsepower than a lawnmower. "Your grandpa?" he inquired.
"Yeah," I replied reflexively, applying no second thoughts to my response.
An Uncommon Family Tree Bud
The essence of the relationship between grandfather and grandson is rooted deep in the fundamentals consisting of time spent together, memories, and the passing of wisdom from the elder to him of the younger generation. Common generalizations might lead one to thinking that this blend of two men from each end of the age spectrum can only mix harmoniously under the condition that the two share bloodlines. However, certain predicaments can forge a family-like relationship between unrelated people. Amidst our agreements on good food and a passion for Minnesota sports teams lies a stronger common denominator between Ron and me: his family includes no children or grandchildren, while mine is lacking in grandparents.
The acquaintance began to form when I was around the age of five years old. Ron and my dad, both active members in the Cattlemen's Association at the time, congregated at our home many a night to sift through figures and discuss business agenda. Although he was always congenial and personable with me, at that time Ron only represented another body in the house. A big body. I remember peering through the doorway of my dad's office to steal glimpses of the man in his late fifties whose appearance sent my young imagination wild. The majority of the three-hundred pounds that make up Ron's body are stashed in a preposterously immense torso. The button-up plaid shirts that pose as the cornerstone of his fatigues were intensely taut against his
entire upper body. Equally tight were the black suspenders that sunk down and nearly disappeared in his gut, only to show themselves near the shoulder region.
In time, the visits to our house transcended the corporate level to one more personal. Every time one of my siblings and I marked another birthday, Ron and his wife, Rose, having few commitments holding them down, would make the trek to our home to celebrate the occasion. Ron would put aside his reading glasses and cattle feedlot data and instead arrive equipped with ten dollar bills tucked inside children's birthday cards. The conventional gifts were received with sometimes eccentric, but always thought-provoking bits of counsel. "Don't go saving that money now," he would advise me in a way that I perceived as joking, although his serious demeanor did not give substance to the idea, "Get rid of it. Spend it, boy."
Through those parties centering around a living room table blanketed with angel food cake, ice cream, and meat and cheese trays, Ron brought out a more outgoing side in me. He told innumerable tales around that table, some believable, others more difficult to comprehend. No matter what, though, the stories invariably yanked cackles out through my usually reserved mouth. I was mesmerized each time he recalled a prank from his adolescent memories. Besides planting ideas in me to reenact his escapades of outhouse tipping and schoolyard one-liners that went one step too far with teachers, these epics sprang a confidence in me to make my own attempts at sharing my thoughts with Ron and also amusing him.
My cousins, slightly older and hardly more mature than me, would often descend with my siblings and me below the party to the basement, where we would prepare to create a rip roar of laughter in Ron upon going back to the living room by dressing
ourselves in outrageously out of place outfits. Mullet wigs, old-fashioned clothes and hats, and shoes made for the opposite gender were never beyond the reach of our limits of dignity when it came to impressing Ron. No matter how repetitious the displays became, his guffaws never ceased to manifest sincere joy and fondness for our comical routines. Ron enjoyed every second of those parties, regardless of what sort of entertainment we provided him.
At this point in my life, my family tree included three living grandparents. I never went looking for facsimile ones, because there was no need to. Subconsciously, however, Ron always had the look and feel of a grandfather in my life. He talked to me with the same concern and bias towards me that grandpas use on their grandchildren. It seemed that everywhere I went with Ron, he found someone he knew and made conversation often focusing on something I had done well that he thought was worth mentioning. All those times, he never tried to imply to the people that we were related, but never voluntarily explained that we were simply friends, either.
Throughout my years of maturing, Ron has truly been a steady support in my life and has taken the initiative to witness my activities along the way. He has remained no less dedicated as a spectator of me wearing a high school athletics uniform as he once was while watching me don outlandish dress-up clothes. At the age of seventy with occasionally questionable knees, Ron is not competent to travel to a great deal of my
basketball games. However, not a season goes by in which I don't see him coming through the gym doors at least once via the shuffling, choppy gate that seems the only adequate way to maneuver his burly frame. Although an open skeptic of substandard things such as poor market prices and slimy politicians, Ron always displays complete patience with games in which I perform poorly and couples that with an excited account of the fine points of my better games. After one my most productive games as a sophomore, Ron showcased his bias for me. "Twelve points! The Timberwolves need to sign you up soon!" To me, that pleasure that Ron got out of me playing well was worth just as much another tally in the win column for my team.
Two summers ago, I lost my last grandparent. The empty feeling that accompanied the realization that I was suddenly without a grandpa or grandma also brought to light the importance of Ron that I had subconsciously felt for over ten years. I then understood that although I'd never confronted the fact before, he'd been a grandfather-figure to me through all those years, and the importance of the birthday parties, stories, and his appearances at my games immediately became more meaningful. Likewise, I was able to comprehend the way Ron felt about me, as well, having never had a person to call his grandson.
Perhaps the most special moment I've experienced involving Ron since the death was last spring during a varsity golf meet. Ron had previously insisted that I inform him of the date of a meet that would be taking place soon near his home. I obliged with an initial feeling of reluctance, for high school golf is a relatively low-attendance sport, with
the slim galleries typically comprised of only parents. Midway through my first hole, however, I dispelled any notion that having Ron there would be embarrassing. Rather,
his presence gave a familiar and calm feeling to my psyche in a competition where I usually would feel none of the two. I wasn't even ashamed of the fact that my spectator followed me through the fairways on the cushioned bench of an E-Z Go golf cart, instead of walking, as galleries most often do. Laziness played no part in Ron's decision, however, as it was caused by an ailing right knee due for surgery in a few months. With that trademark patience and enthusiasm, my bystander witnessed me take just thirty-eight strokes to get through the nine-hole round. The score was my best ever at the time, and one shot shy of the school record.
I might have convinced myself of just how much Ron means to me on the sixth hole of that round. As I stood on the tee box with my foursome of varsity competitors from various schools, one player turned and gestured toward the gigantic man climbing a tarred incline with visible difficulty on a club golf cart of just slightly more horsepower than a lawnmower. "Your grandpa?" he inquired.
"Yeah," I replied reflexively, applying no second thoughts to my response.