POEM: 'Grandad, the young man' 💛

Keith loved conversation. He would host large escapades with his friends and anyone else who would listen over red wine. Here, he would author together his life of literature, outings, and his important work as a Medical and Dental salesman. He’d glint his gold crowns over pints of stout and offer to play his classical guitar, ballroom dancing across the tiled floor until his energy ran out and the liquor too. A contemporary Ferlinghetti, he mourned the early loss of his hair over yellowed book pages, in which he read eight books a week. His father was a hockey selector, and despite Keith’s exceptional hockey skill, he could not be selected for the Olympic Team—I suppose favouritism still existed in the 1950s. 

My Grandad was a true Leo—especially charming and good-looking, he was the heterosexual Stanley Tucci of his time. He loved people and people loved him back. Keith grew up in a boys home, his mother had lunatic tendencies and was admitted when he was young. After resurfacing, his mother married a wealthy man in Cashmere and lived out her life in post-war luxury—with bread and butter readily available. In a boys home, one becomes accustomed to second-hand and third-hand everything. 

Upon leaving New-Zealand, Keith found his pot of gold at Bondi Beach. A stone’s throw away from sand, he forged an upmarket wardrobe and career, starting in BP Oil. He was newly divorced and seeking refuge down under. His little boy dreams came to fruition and about ten years later his first grand daughter was born in Randwick. Left with no father and a seemingly absent mother, Keith put on his upmarket paternal hat and fathered this girl around golden sands and music. You could’ve mistaken the millennial year for the sweet 70s; life was carefree, skin was bronzed, and this girl had soft blue eyes only for her Grandad. 

Keith loved all music, he insisted on every kind—classical, jazz, rock, and indie. His house was always rocking a sweet tune. Bonnie the cat swayed and purred in staccato. Grandad would attend the opening of an envelope, so long as conversation flowed at the same pace as champagne. 

Over the years, his frivolous narrative faded, and he became the storybook hero of Grandpa’s Old Cardigan. His days were spent couched and reading, always with a cat and a cardigan. He was omitted from drinking as he developed somewhat of a mental disorder and was heavily medicated from his youth. I know he yearned for his Great Gatsby days, yet he fathered me with music and books, and that’s all I ever needed. I wish he lived long enough to read my book, the one I wrote in his honour as the pillar of my life. His name was Keith, although later I found out it was Selwyn as men often took their middle names. So, Selwyn, Keith, Grandad – I miss you and I’m so glad to have known you. 

Haley x