Descriptive Essay About Grandfather

My Papa was the greatest man I have ever known. He portrayed the perfect American man: he was a Navy veteran who continued to serve his country by riding his motorcycle in the Patriot Guard. To me, he was god-like--there was no question he could not answer and no problem he could not solve. He could cook anything, build anything, do anything. His heart overflowed with selflessness. He set aside his own problems to listen to mine. He always helped his neighbors clean their yards or change their oil; he knew mechanics like an old friend. Papa would always be on the road, riding his favorite tinkered motorcycle with his Navy Veteran biker gang.

My grandma Shirlee Shields, her son Quade Cowdell he is my dad and my mom Tina Cowdell. They were all born in the state Utah. My grandma and mom were born in Tooele and my dad was born in Salt Lake City. As for me I was born in Tooele also that’s how I got my last name.

My maternal grandmother Juana Martinez was born in 1933 to Domitila Naranjo and Mariano Martinez. She was born in a small town named Piscila, in the state of Colima in Mexico. Her mother was a homemaker, while her father provided for them by selling crops he grew on his land. Although my great grandfather was successful at what he did, his income was spread thin between his ten children and wife.

Some of them include Grandma and Grandpa Fithian. Grandma was a homemaker. She stayed home and took care of my Mom and her two brothers. She took care of everything in the house while my Grandpa worked and my Mom and her brothers were at school. When Jason, my youngest Uncle, went to elementary school, my Grandma decided to go to college. After raising her young children, she decided to become a nurse. Grandma went to college at night, while Grandpa watched the kids. Grandpa worked for the Long Island Railroad, after graduating from high school. My Mom became a teacher in New York and then moved to North Carolina. My Uncle Jason became a police officer and moved to Florida. My Uncle Joey joined the army and was in the Gulf War. He is a veteran. He moved to California and became a

Thursday July 13th, 2015. I spent that beautiful summer afternoon on my back porch with one of the best grandpas anyone could ever ask for. My grandpa, grandma, mom, dad, and I treated that Thursday like it was any other. Although it was still enjoyable, I wish we made it more special. It was the last time I would ever sit with my grandpa and create memories like we used to.

At just over five feet tall, she was the kind of woman that you saw on the street and knew to move out of her way. Her demeanor was strict, her hands tied with thick blue veins, criss­crossing over her thin, frail fingers.

“Thank you, David, so kind of you to do this for me,” he said, after an hour of watching me mess around with his computer. He seemed to be unaware of everything, constantly needing help, even though the solutions were so simple. Which was strange, because he was also a very clever man. To this day he is still the smartest-stupid guy I know. Grandpa.

Every person I have ever met has someone that they are able to look up to and can say that that specific person is their hero. A very important person in my life that has affected me in many ways would be my father. There is so much to know about such a great person. Lance Knight is a mentor, a hard worker, a businessman, an avid ice hockey fan, and a loving dad. Whether he is at home, in the office, or out socializing with friends and family you can always expect a friendly and positive demeanor. My father is one of the most paramount and compelling people in my life due to his love he shares for others, his influential advice, and the countless similarities we have in common.

Grandparents are the backbone of every family tree. They provide love and nourishment, and even an escape when your annoying parents are getting on your nerves. When your parents say no to junk food, they feed you chocolate chip cookies and M&Ms. Huh. That must be your grandparents. While my grandfather, Henry Malachowski, is still the backbone of the Malachowski clan, he provides me with some of life’s most essential lessons. My grandpa is someone I can depend on for his wisdom when the rest of the world’s advice is not adequate enough for me to succeed in my quests.

My mother’s father, my grandfather, was a very large presence in the community. He was well respected in both the white as well as the black community in which he owned a grocery store. This was unusual because there was a lot of racial tension and discrimination in Southern Alabama in the 1960’s. He was a tall man at six foot five and was a hard worker. He often bailed people out of jail and helped them with food when they were financially strapped anonymously. He was a Sunday school teacher and had good moral values. I learned later that before I came along he had been an alcoholic, a smoker, had been known for his quick temper, was not religious and had been unfaithful to my grandmother. As it was told to me, one Sunday morning he got up, got dressed, went to church and never took another drink or smoked again and was a radically changed man. He became a kind, caring, charitable person. He was more of a father to me in many ways than my dad and we had long talks in which he stressed the important things in life. He and my grandmother took my sister and I fishing on the lake. We camped in the camper. We stayed for vacations at the Gulf of Mexico. The stories he told, lessons I learned and loving affection he genuinely offered is something I consider a gift I have never forgotten. The reason I never forgot is

Narrator’s grandfather was a black, freed slave who lived in a time where prejudicism was high, though slavery was abolished. The narrator’s grandfather was perceived as a very great man who did not say much. Though when he laid on his deathbed, he revealed some surprising truth. Narrator’s grandfather told his son, “Son, after I’m gone I want you to keep up the good fight. I never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy’s country ever since I gave up my gun back in the Reconstruction.” (qtd. Ellison 279). Though this can have different connotations to it, it can essentially mean that the narrator’s grandfather believes he is a traitor to the black community because he has just kept

The year is 2004, somewhere in a cab. I hear the jingle of the beads attached to the Rosary on the rear view mirror, I see the trees flashing as if everything we left behind turned into nothingness. I remember feeling sad or scared but not knowing why. I see green, everything in sight was green. I felt the sinister whisper of the wind gently kissing the hairs on the back of my neck, sending a chill through my body. My mother smiled at me with tear filled eyes and a baby inside of her. Whether I knew it or not my life was about to change.

Norah was 73 years old and surprisingly healthy. When I was a child, she played a huge role in my life. I went over to her house at least once a week, and I could always count on my grandma to be there for me.

My grandfather was a disorganized workaholic, a good listener, and a brave man. He was, according to one of his students, “… the Indiana Jones of linguistics.” I love that man because of what I have learned about him. I knew my grandfather when he was sick, but like many Parkinson’s patients, he had been changed by his illness, so when I knew him, he seemed more like a moving body than a person. When I was born, his sense of direction had already left, his muscles had already started to stiffen, and his coping abilities had eroded considerably.

When I was 10 years old, I realized I was different from my father. I was in my room playing with LEGO’s when dad called up.