Waiting for the flames...
While this will probably be a touchy subject for some people, but bare with it.

In my house there is a photo of a German soldier and his wife, when I was younger I asked who he was, my dad replied, "that's my grandfather" and not much else, I only found out recently that was all he knew as well.

We had a father/son project to work out who this man was, all we had to go on was this photo as my dad doesn't really talk to his mother (That's another story for later) using the power of the internet we worked out that he was in the Luftwaffe as a "Gefreiter" anyone who knows the German ranking system knows that this means he was an "exempted man" (meaning he didn't have to do sentry duty) looking further into his uniform, we found that he was engineer.

At this point we were somewhat stuck, and after a few phonecalls to distant relatives from Germany, the bigger picture came out.

As it turns out he was moved all the way across Norway building air bases for the Military effort. However, while this was happening his family in Berlin were under constant threat of bombing, so his housekeeper took the children away into the Black Forest and kept them there until the war was over, when he got back home, he was so grateful to this woman that he married her!

Even though he fought for the Germans in WW2, he was still a great man
(Maccy Divided by 0 on, Tue 7 Jun 2011, 0:47, 8 replies)

My grandad was one of the soldiers that first encountered Belsen concentration camp.
He was an MP attached to the 11th armoured division which discoved the horrific place, and was one of the first to go through the gates.
He rarely spoke of his experience there, and when he did, he would cry his heart out at the memories of the place, even over 40 years later when he first told me.
It may go some way to explaining why he was a cantankerous old git who had little love for anything german... quite odd considering my nan was half german herself :p
( MrSanity has maybe kicked the WoW habit forever, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 22:30, 3 replies)

My grandfather is 95 (possibly his birthday today in fact)
and as such not only had some thoroughly interesting stories from the war (he flew gliders that carried tanks and after one crash landing had to swim a river while being shot at by the Bosch) but had some from before the war as well.

In the 30s he was a librarian and as part of some kind of librarian exchange programme he worked in Germany for a while. This led to him seeing Hitler at the Berlin Olympics in 1936 among other things.
Last time I discussed such matters with him he told me about the chap who was assigned to him while he was over there to keep an eye on him. Ostensibly he was there to make sure my grandfather was getting on ok, but it seems likely that he was actually there to prevent any spying from going.

As smug self-satisfaction runs strongly through the male side of my family it is not surprising that my grandfather somehow managed to weasel something of his memoirs into a museum. Unfortunately for the conclusion of this tale I can't remember which one. British Museum or the Imperial War Museum I believe.
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 21:16, Reply)

Blacklisted by the Jehovah's Witnesses
My Grandma has some very strong beliefs (namely that an inch of bare table space is food space wasted, and a second of silence is a conversation wasted, but that's beside the point.) The beliefs here are churchy ones, and she (like my Grandad before he went a bit hippy dippy and decided on an eco burial in unconsecrated ground, but that's another story and has a severe lack of funnies) considers herself to be a staunch Church of England type. She is also unafraid of informing others of these beliefs.

Well, (wavy lines) a few years back I was a fair bit younger and was staying with a friend in a scenic Lincolnshire coastal resort at the house of the grandparental types. My Grandad, myself and said friend were wandering to the local shop. Given that Grandad had a rather pimp zimmer, this was going to take some time. Probably around half an hour to the shops, 20 minutes talking to the pension man, 45 minutes for a cup of tea and an egg butty in the cafe, half an hour back.

As we left, the nice men from the Jehovah's Witnesses were approaching the front door of my grandparents' flat (stopping only to give my fourteen year old self a leaflet with "look, cute pandas" on it).
"Good luck to them," chortles my Grandad, and away we meander to the shops.

Around two hours later we are wandering up the drive way and notice two pairs of sensible shoes outside the front door. At the time I may have made some remark about alien abductions (it was well in the X Files heyday), but the actual explanation was perhaps better. Grandma had one poor soul trapped under a plate of scones and tea, whilst the other was almost visibly backing towards the door. I don't know how the conversation had panned out before we got there, but all we caught was the following:

(Grandma) "Oooh, John, my son's name is John too."
(Poor trapped man) "Yes, yes, it is a common name isn't it?" (with a brave attempt at a smile)
(Grandma, with that withering disdain that only very small old ladies approaching 80 can pull off) "Well, JOHN, rather than think of it as common, I always try and think of it as one of the disciples, don't you? Maybe we should talk about this some more..."

Cue the two men noticing us lurking and visibly jumping for their shoes and the door. They've not been back since.

This is the same lady that bought herself a new ring as a diamond wedding present when my Grandad was to ill to get into town, and who last year, at the age of 83, went and organised her first passport so she can come and visit me in Germanland. She might drive us bonkers on occasion, but she's still rather wonderful.
(Picotee, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 19:12, 3 replies)

Mama
Apologies for length and lack of humour etc. My maternal grandmother, Mama, is an amazing lady. She's 86 years old now and still completely independent despite losing my Poppa 10 years ago, however as I've got older I've come to appreciate how much of a role model and what a fantastic person she is. She worked as a driver in WWII for the RAF, transporting munitions all over Scotland and also officials and airmen despite being an 18 year old girl and only just over 5 feet tall she learnt to drive lorries, tankers and all sorts of cars.
However the thing I admire her most for is after her own son died as a toddler she adopted first my mum (possibly saving her from a nasty Irish nun-run home) and then another baby. In the 1960's most children with special needs like my uncle would be institutionalised and denied education and the chance of a normal life but her and my Poppa fought to bring my uncle up themselves sending him to normal schools, getting him the best medical help they could even when things were difficult for them financially. She still accompanies my uncle to his hospital appointments, helps him to live independently, will go to his flat at anytime of the day or night when he is panicked about anything and help him to get anything he needs organised.
She also looked after me and my brothers and sister when we were little and up until last year drove my sister to and from school when ever my mum or dad couldn't. She is one of the loveliest people I know, with never a bad word to say about anyone and would help anyone who needed anything. I dread the day I have to tell anyone about her in the past tense, she's an inspiration.
On the other hand my paternal grandmother seems to get her kicks insulting myself and my sister in anyway possible, so win some lose some I guess
(anotherdoublewhiskey, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 19:01, Reply)

I didn't know 3 of them. And I knew the 4th even less.
When my grandmother "Cita" (real name Alice but I never asked about the nickname) died, she shared the same date a beloved scots terrier passed away. I honestly cried far more for a companion I spent many joyful years with than for my father's mother, who I saw as a cranky, mean spirited crone whose only joy in life was making the family wait to open gifts on Christmas Day.

It was a simple rule: no one could open any gift boxes until all immediate family members on the island were under the same roof. Cita wouldn't call from her apartment until some time around noon, and in later years she'd wait until one in the afternoon before saying "I'm ready: come pick me up." The drive wasn't a long one, but when we arrived at the apartment my grandmother seemed to enjoy taking her time, making my brothers and me insensate with boredom as she chatted with M&D before finally standing up and shuffling down to the parking lot and the waiting station wagon. If it was an attempt at reducing materialism among us, it worked very well for me, as I gradually developed indifference to the piles of presents during the annual event.

A decade after Cita's passing found me helping my mother sort through some boxes of possessions. The family had moved to another island and simply dragged everything along, placing the bulk into short term storage while we awaited completion of dad's first "from scratch" house, built directly over the charred remains of the prior owner's home (but that's a story for another time). Opening up one box, I pulled out a folded uniform along with some framed photographs and several yellowed documents. My mother exclaimed, "oh! Cita's uniform! I'm glad we still have that."

"Mom, what was this uniform for?"

"Oh, we never told you! Cita worked with USO in the Pacific for WWII, and helped with the logistics planning and schedules. She met all sorts of movie stars and singers and comedians before they went to entertain the troops. She didn't want her favorite son sent far away, so she pulled some strings and kept your father stationed on O'ahu."

Cue the dropped jaw, wide eyed look. "Wow, that's amazing."

It was the first glimpse of an alternate version of my departed grandmother, and it was as alien as the stunning photograph of the woman in uniform and cap which had been carefully packed along with the uniform and documents - and which I clearly remember had never been displayed in Cita's apartment.

A few more days and a few more boxes later, I came across more of Cita's belongings, including a yellowed stack of letters. I handed them to my mother and she briefly scanned through them saying, "I wonder if. . .oh: it's still here!"

"What's that?"

"The Lindbergh letter."

Oh fuck, here it comes again. "The Lindbergh letter?"

"Yes! She had been traveling across Europe back then and was in Paris the week he made the flight. She thought he might be missing home a bit so she baked him an apple pie and brought it to him the day after he landed. This is the letter he wrote, thanking her for the pie."

It's been less than a week and my image of my grandmother has already been smashed to bits. There was more to come, but not for another 15 years.

Flash forward to 2002. Mom has flown out to Taos, New Mexico and I've driven out to help her locate Cita's final resting place. During the period when her urn was placed in a tiny below ground crypt, there was a scandal involving the local clergy, some under age boys and girls and - well, nevermind. Records were badly kept - if at all - and we were just hoping to find the general area where she might have been interred. As the first day turned to dusk and our eyes blurred from reading what records were available to us, I suggested visiting a restaurant I had noticed during the drive into town. As we approached the entrance, mom said "oh: this was Cita's house. They've done a good job keeping it intact." Yes, I was about to learn more wonderful things about the grandmother I never knew.

The meal was very good and I marveled at how well the restaurant group had integrated the valance lighting system into the very solid, sprawling adobe structure. It actually looked like it had been an original part of the house. Mother quickly corrected me. "Oh no, they didn't add that: that was Cita's original idea for this place. She taught me everything I know about architecture and design - and she hated Frank Lloyd Wright as much as you do."

I rail against the monster, the deity, the cosmic arbiter, whatever or whoever it was that took away the wonderful lady with scores of fantastic life stories to tell her grandchildren and replaced her with the hateful old woman who made it clear she couldn't stand having us around.

The next day, we assemble the best picture of where Cita was interred from the various bits given us, and head over to that part of the church grounds with a metal detector to scan for larger objects. At first I think there's a mistake, as we find a small courtyard with a tree in the center, but as I begin my sweeps, we find a strong return close to the base of the tree.

"There's something down there. Do you think they just forgot they had buried her out here and planted this tree?"

"That's really strange - but it was a chaotic time."

"Want to call this her spot? She'll be one with the tree."

"I think she'd like that."

I hope I'm wrong and the life after death people are right and I'll eventually meet up with Cita some time in the far future. I have in my possession an old band-style ring, fitted with 3 diamonds, 2 of them in a cut style so old jewelers refuse to duplicate that pattern. One of the original stones was lost when the ring slipped off mom's finger while she was washing the dishes: the sparkly replacement is easily spotted and highly incongruous. The ring was given to my father by my grandmother and he gave it to my mother as an engagement ring. The inside of the gold band is inscribed with several Hawai'ian names, and I'm certain Cita knew the story behind them, whether it truly belonged to royalty and was given to settle a debt or if she acquired it through even more fantastic means.

Rest well, Cita.

p.s.: Many fantastic stories here: I have not ever laughed and cried as much over a qotw.
( Felis Concolor, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 18:56, 3 replies)

different reactions
My maternal grandad was in the merchant navy (stop sniggering at the back) but never talked to anyone about the war. The only things we know were that he missed his ship home from america once and it was sank on that return leg, killing all of his friends. That and he was somehow shot through the arm and a german surgeon put his disintegrated elbow back together. We only found out that much since my eldest uncle once got him shitfaced.

My paternal grandad however, before his mind turned to custard he'd share his wartime anecdotes with anyone who'd listen. He'd been a cook in north africa after the nasty stuff was finished and didn't encounter any 'real action'.

We all talk bollocks on the internet but you don't hear much from the poor fucks who've actually had to kill people and deal with it.
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 18:02, 3 replies)

catharsis, fuck yeah!
When he was dying, my grandfather made his 2 children promise not to buy his house after his death, as they both wanted it, and he knew what a rift it would cause in the family. My dad complied with his wishes. My aunt moved in with her husband and children a few weeks after he died and made my grandmother feel like a guest in her own home. Now she lives in a small house she hates, and has had her care plan forcibly changed by her daughter, after carefully deciding with my father what would be best for her.
We have not seen my aunt or cousins since 1997, which absolutely breaks my grandmother's heart.

My other grandmother (my mum's mum) spent her childhood looking after her siblings, her early married life looking after her father (who had dementia) and her later life looking after my grandfather (who had very severe MS and couldn't feed himself, go to the toilet himself, get out of bed etc) until his death. Now she lives in a small house that she hates, and has been manipulated by my gambling, drug using cousin into borrowing over £20,000 for him. The policeman who interviewed her said she was the hardest person he has ever interviewed in 20 years. She will not say a word against my cousin, such is her delusion and faith in him. She now has an allowance from my mum every week and is too scared to answer the door or the phone.

Selfishness has broken these 2 women who are too old and too vulnerable to stand up for themselves.
There's no real end to this post. I guess the moral of the story is don't be a cunt to people.
(reducedfatLOLcat, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 17:28, Reply)

My Canadian grandfather was a spectacular racist, and had some fucking weird opinions.
His oddest rant ever was when he complained that 'The Chinese are turning Toronto into a miniature Lebanon'. Quite why they were supposedly doing this he never explained.

He also claimed to have met the real Colonel Sanders. This was quite possibly a wind-up, though.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 17:02, 2 replies)

Smashing
My other grandad made it into the local paper once because he got into a drunken fight and pushed someone through a shop window, the best part was that he thought he'd murdered them because one of the shop dummies had been broken in half.

He once went on holiday with his mates without telling my grandma first. He just left a note saying "gone away, please feed tomatoes".

He also has been banned from my local Wetherspoons 3 times for arguing with the bar staff for not pouring pints properly. (in his defence he used to own a pub)

He nearly got into trouble for shouting "Sit down! You obviously weren't made in St Helens" to some asian people at a rugby match. He didn't mean it in a racist way, he meant that they weren't made of glass so he couldn't see the pitch.

He also pronounces Chinese as 'Cha Knees' He pronounces cheese as 'chaze' and has many other words that are of no local slang/accent despite living in Atherton for most of his life and then moving to near Blackpool.
(bamslower i like cheesecake..., Mon 6 Jun 2011, 17:00, Reply)

Innocent racism when it comes to pets names :-/
I'm not racist myself and I don't think my grandad was particularly racist as far as old people go, but once at the trafford centre whilst stood next to a family of black people he started telling me about a labrador that he used to have who's name rhymed with 'bigger'. Please bare in mind that I was only 13/14 and he was very hard of hearing so spoke quite loudly, I was absolutely shitting myself...
(bamslower i like cheesecake..., Mon 6 Jun 2011, 16:46, 6 replies)

6 pages
and still no-one has admitted to being touched yet.

What's going on?
(magic the cat will someone please think of the kittens, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 15:46, 10 replies)

The Doctor
My grandfather was a bit of an inspiration to be honest. The son of a local village vicar, when he was about six years old he tripped on an exposed tree-root and fractured his arm. Although x-rays were extremely experimental in those days, he managed to have his arm checked out by one which was then put in a cast for six weeks (the arm, not the x-ray). During those six weeks he continually moaned about how much his arm was hurting but was told, with the typical bluntness of the mid ‘20’s to put up or shut up.

When the cast was removed from his arm, it revealed a huge mess. The x-ray had fused the wrist bones together, along with the fingers of his left hand, and burnt the skin from wrist to elbow. He endured several years of what can only really be described as incredibly painful surgery (a lot of it was eventually re-worked by Dr. Archie McIndoe for any of you that know about plastic surgery). For all of this, he was rewarded with, iirc, £2,000 compensation from the hospital.

So what would you do in that situation? He was left with a crippled left arm, had missed altogether about 3 years of education and was still in considerable pain. He decided that rather than see anyone else put through the same sort of thing he would become a doctor himself.

To say he saw a lot in his life is a massive understatement. He studied during the Second World War, and was on fire-watch duty when an incendiary bomb hit the Royal College of Surgeon’s hospital at Lincoln’s Inn Fields in ’41 and was the first doctor on the scene. He was the Police Doctor in Jersey for 25 years, spearheading the use of forensics by the police in the hunt for the Beast of Jersey. He was the only official doctor on the scene after the Jersey Airlines crash which killed all bar one on board. But he also saw a lot of life – 5 kids, 12 grand-children and at least 3 great-grandchildren by the time he died.

And the favourite hobby for a man with a pretty-much unusable left-arm? Driving. After the age of around 30, the only cars that he drove were Rolls Royce’s, Daimlers or Talbots. He was the epitome of old-school style, his manners were impeccable and he enjoyed life to the full. I have so many fantastic memories of the man, mostly him sitting in his arm-chair watching his family all around with a gentle smile on his face, waiting for the chime of 5p.m. from the grandfather clock in the hallway when a tumbler of whiskey would appear in his hand as if by magic (although in reality, helped there somewhat by his stalwart wife, my Grandmother) - my favourite memory however was simply chatting to him, man-to-man when I must have been only about six years old about the qualifications on his wall.

He was a true patriarch of his family. He sat at the head of any table he ate at, and deservedly so. He was treated with respect from all that knew him. At his funeral, we had a full police escort from his house to the church – motorbike outriders to stop traffic and cars flanking a convoy of his RR Corniche III, RR Wraith and ’37 Talbot driven by his kids and with the rest of his family packing them out. He had a guard of honour formed by the Police and St. John’s ambulance, with the latter’s flag draped over the coffin, and the church itself had people standing outside because there wasn’t even standing room left inside.

Apologies for the length and the lack of amusement, but it’s been seven or eight years now and I still miss him, along with all of my grand-parents – even the one I never knew. I’m not an emotional person, but I have tears in my eyes as I remember him. I could add so much more – I have a copy of his memoires still, and think I may read them again soon.

Thanks for the opportunity to share.
( Hunter Stockton was murdered by a bicycle wielding axolotl,.,.,.,., Mon 6 Jun 2011, 15:38, 2 replies)

Geography not her strong point
At the start of the war, my Gran decided to move her family out of the danger of London, and go and stay with relatives. In Southend. So, closer to Germany and pretty much directly under the direct flight path between Berlin and London.

She only ever had a nodding acquaintance with reality, to be honest. She would claim that her grandfather was a highwayman and her grandmother was an Egyptian princess. Which makes tracing the family tree rather difficult, since it's clearly arrant nonsense.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 14:52, 1 reply)

Papa Vincente and the exploding toilet
My Granpa Vincente was Italian and served the first half of WWII fighting the allies until the Italians changed ends at half time so to speak.

Although I never met him (he died in the early 60's), there are many family tales of his wartime exploits of ineptitude and un-heroism, my favourite being "Papa Vincente and the exploding toilet".

Vincente was a ground crew engineer for an Italian torpedo bomber squadron (SM 79's for the geeks out there). In the early days of the war not much happened out in the Mediterranean so Vincente, being very bored volunteered for a course to transfer to flight crew (engineer/gunner)to break up the tedium.

After a week or so of ground training he went up on his first training flight in a formation of 3 bombers. It was meant to be a simple flight down the coast to get familiar with things, a bit of a jolly really. They even took a picnic lunch, bread and cheese and a couple of bottles of wine. However, It seems the lead navigator made a little error and the formation strayed a little too close for comfort to Malta which was under British control.

As the formation turned to head back to base they were bounced by 2 Hurricanes and split up. Papa Vincentes plane was harried and hounded by one of the Hurricanes for 50 miles back up the Italian coast. The aircraft was riddled with bullets despite the best if rather woefully inaccurate efforts of Papa Vincente and the other trainee gunner. Out of ammunition, Papa Vincente went to the back of the airplane where, next to the rather primitive chemical toilet, spare ammunition was stowed.

BOOM

As he was reaching for the ammunition boxes a stray cannon round from the Hurricane tore through the side of the aircraft and hit the toilet blowing it to bits and spraying its contents (along with a fair bit of shrapnel) all over poor hapless Vincente.

Ground crew it seems would only empty the horrible toilets when they were nearly full .... and Vincente swore blind that this one was well past its due time! Messy!

The story ends happily enough. All three bombers made it home although two were quite badly damaged and it is presumed the Hurricane pilots got home safely as well. Vincente was the only casualty with shrapnel wounds from the exploding toilet, some of which became badly infected which put him out of the war for 6 months.

On his return to his squadron he suprisingly declined the offer to resume his aircrew training and never flew again.
( RadG Drinking Mojitos in the sun, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 14:49, Reply)

Another WWII story, sorry...
My Fathers Father used to teach flying in Bi-planes (edit/ Tigermoth's I believe) and was also a Pathfinder, when he started to write his memoirs (he died before he could finish them) the only stories were about how many times he crashed his planes. Also when he spotted a fleet of bombers coming to blow up his barracks, he landed his plane alerted everyone then dived under the nearest possible shelter, a petrol tanker. Legend.
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Mon 6 Jun 2011, 14:28, 1 reply)

Another Grandad war story I'm afraid
My grandad was a Royal Marine who found himself behind a heavy machine gun on the landing craft which approached Gold beach on DDay. Unfortunately, because he had gone AWOL some months earlier to attend his brothers wedding, he had to take part in the Normandy Landings without getting paid due to him being docked several month wages.

He also shot part of the end of his craft off following a german fighter......
( Smithlick is often seen at the bottom of threads, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 14:14, Reply)

My grandmother
had a phobia of questions being answered 162 weeks late.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 13:58, 1 reply)

My grandad
did fuck all except get chassed by a pack of dogs on his bike.

all kneel before him!
(Clit Ninja is having a white space party!, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 13:37, 6 replies)

Relative ages
I'm 26 and one of my grandads was born in 1889.

He was 12 when Queen Victoria died.

True story.
(Beelzebub's Ball Bag is pleasuring your wife on, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 13:28, 3 replies)

I read about this old bloke who had once fought in a war.
What a hero. I'm so proud.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 12:46, 1 reply)

My grandfather
used to be an inveterate slot-jockey, always slipping away from my nan to waste a tenner whenever they were in a pub.
Unfortunately he wasn't the luckiest gambler in the world, so after the fruity won his cash he'd go to the bar, change a 20 pound note for twenty pound coins, and head back to the table where we were all sitting.
Nan would normally open proceedings with "have you been wasting your money on those bloody machines again?", at which point he'd grin, put his hand in his pocket, and jingle the change he'd just obtained from the bar.
My grandmother's face would split open into a huge grin, and all would be forgiven as he'd clearly doubled his money.
He died 15 years ago and she still doesn't know that the money he 'won' every weekend had probably come straight out of his pension.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 12:44, Reply)

As it's the aniversary of the Normandy Landings today..
..not my grandad, but almost. My nan's first husband.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 12:31, 1 reply)

My gran
At the age of about 80 she was knocked over by a lorry while shopping. After that she would always say, "If it wasn't for that lorry I'd still be alive today." She lived to within a few weeks of her 100th birthday.

She loved watching the wrestling on TV but had to stop as she would get too worked up by it. She also loved the snooker. When she first got a colour TV she asked my dad to take it back to the shop as it was "unnatural". As a compromise he turned down the colour so everything was in muted shades of brown. No idea how she followed the snooker, but she was addicted to it.
(Smale is stuffed, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 11:31, 2 replies)

My Grandparents were born in 1941
So were either not born or very young during WWII so have no war stories whatsoever!

Beat that internet!
( Peej, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 10:35, 3 replies)

a small sherry...
We used to share a house with my grandad until I was about five. I used to love licking the bowl when my mum made meringues, so when I saw a little bowl with something white and foamy in it in my grandad's room I went straight for it. Unfortunately it turned out to be his shaving foam, but he reckoned the best thing to take the taste away was a small glass of sherry... I don't remember much of the rest of the day.
(fuchsiaperfect, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 10:32, 3 replies)

my grandad was, like most, in ww2.
He never talked about it. Ever. When questioned about photos or the box of medals he always went quiet and made tea. When he was dying he started telling small stories, huge snakes on railway lines in burma etc.. my dad told me he remembered as a boy despite the rationing making rock cakes to send to him so as to remind him of home. Shortly after grandad told me 'they came in handy in a tight spot. I used to throw em at the Japs'
( Filthy narwhal titty titty tits tits tits, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 10:19, Reply)

My gran
used to make me drink the water from boiled cabbage, amongst force-feeding me soup, liver and onions and guinness, walking my legs off and several other old-fashioned rituals such as keeping chocolate for special occasions long after it became inexpensive. Even after smoking for 20 years (not anymore though) I am among the healthiest people I know, probably because of the lifestyle choices of those who experienced rationing and never forgot it.

I don't agree with war or fighting but I learned a lot from my grandparents through the experiences they shared with me, not least to appreciate what you have got, be generous no matter how little you have and look after each other. They seemed to think living through WWII heightened simple pleasures and made it easier to unite as a community even though they hated it. They were resilient and found the best in everything.

I reckon my grandparents were well hard and could take my parents in a fight any day.
( bland is bland, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 8:31, Reply)

War stories
My 92 year old Grandad's fantastic - and his Alzheimer's is a constant source of entertainment. One day he unwittingly admitted to a secret fourth child in America - and after years of regaling us with stories from his time in the army during WWII, we discovered that they were from various war films he'd just seen on the telly.

Unfortunately he is also - like 95% of the Grandads out there - incredibly racist. The delicious irony is that the care home he lives in now is staffed predominantly by black ladies. Thankfully they all have a sense of humour, and they overlook his references to them being "as black as the ace of spades" "nignogs" and having "big wog bums". He has also been known to poke said bums with his walking stick.
(Supermonkey, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 3:06, 2 replies)

Dead
All four of em, dead.
( Frogbeat, Mon 6 Jun 2011, 1:33, 3 replies)