Dan Morris: My word, what a great man my grandad was

He was a Polish miner – strong as an ox and built like a bear. Tall, with a heavily-accented baritone speaking voice, and even in his twilight years very handsome, he was the striking sort of chap for whom rooms seemed built to enter.

He’d come to the UK to make a life for himself, and make a life he did. Becoming a father to a large and loving family, he spent his life working to provide for his wife and children, constantly grafting to give them the best that he could.

My memories of him are all strong. Twenty-seven years later I can still picture him bouncing me on his knee and gurning with a truly magical skill.

As a little lad he was one of my heroes, and as I’ve grown up and heard more stories about him, he has become my hero all the more.

Two that involved me – though that I was too young to fully remember – have always made me laugh, and perfectly encapsulate the heart of the wonderfully uncompromising rogue I will always think of with a grin.

When I visited my grandparents’ house as a child, I used to love exploring their garden.

My grandad was a keen outdoorsman – he grew his own vegetables; from potatoes to onions, cultivated berry bushes, and also kept chickens. It was a busy garden to say the least, and to a kid it was an absolute wonderland.

I was always fascinated by the different treasures it held in store, and my grandad would often take me on a tour of all of the exciting new additions to his magical world.

On one particular Sunday when I was around three years old, we wandered the garden on our usual adventure, revelling in a bit of grandad/grandson time while my dad enjoyed a cuppa in the kitchen. We were probably gone for no more than half an hour, but this was just enough time for my grandad to update me on what I clearly believed was a spectacularly intriguing addition to one of my favourite childhood haunts, and one that he pulled no punches in enlightening me on.

When we returned to the house, my dad – perfectly on cue – asked me to recount the wonderful and exciting jewels of nature that grandad had shown me.

Anticipating a customary reply to the tune of ‘wabbits’, ‘ta-toes’, ‘bewwies’ and ‘cawwots’, my response on this particular day was one he hadn’t quite prepared for.

“Dogs**t”, I proudly exclaimed, as the man who raised me looked at me in disbelief for perhaps the first time.

“I’m sorry sweetheart?”, said my dad, convinced (or at least foolishly hoping) that he must have misheard me.

“Dogs**t”, I very matter-of-factly repeated, simply relaying the information in the exact form my no-nonsense grandad had deemed my ears perfectly good and ready for when I had quizzed him on the prize his pooch had left on the lawn.

Turning to the grand architect of my very first profanity, my dad looked his father-in-law in the face and waited for an explanation as to why – despite the many wonders of the world I had been exposed to in the last half an hour – it was this particular gem that I had decided to share with the audience.

“Well?..” he said.

“Well there was dogs**t,” reasoned my grandfather – defending himself admirably, though perhaps missing the point ever so slightly.

From that day on, and realising that my mind – like those of all three-year-old children – was a sponge just waiting to absorb a delicious repertoire of bad language, my parents kept a close watch on theirs when they were around me.

My grandad too had been warned to be careful, and all seemed well – my halo satisfactorily restored… For a while.

Sometime later my grandad was treating me to another one of his epic face-pulling sessions.

On this particular occasion he had removed his false teeth for better facial elasticity, and I was entirely mesmerised by him.

My dad watched and laughed as I attempted to copy the expressions my grandad was making, trying my best to mimic him as closely as I could. The faces grew sillier, the smiles grew broader, and all was well.

Clearly about to speak, I glanced from my grandad to my dad, and as I once again looked squarely into my father’s eyes, he waited with baited breath to hear the sweet remark or question that was surely about to come from the mouth of the happy little chap before him.

“Bleddy’ell!”, I exclaimed, with an all-too-familiar twang.

“Try and tell me he hasn’t got that from you!” said my father, rounding on my grandad with a mixture of shock and laughter in his eyes.

“Why are you picking on me for!” retorted my grandad, defiant to the last.

“Bernard,” said my dad, “the kid swears with a Polish accent! Who else could it’ve been?!”

He would’ve turned 99 years old next month, and needless to say that in the short time I knew him he taught me far more than the occasional cheeky curse word.

His experience in the era that he lived in gave him a perspective on both the dark and the light that nurtured in him a personality and set of values built on often blunt honesty and the earning of respect.

He was as straight as a die, true to every word he spoke, and a great judge of a character.

Never once did he do the world the disservice of calling something out as anything less than exactly as he saw it – meaning that when he laughed, he laughed; when he loved, he loved; and when there was dogs**t… There was dogs**t.

He never wasted 10 words where two would do, and it is with irony there that after 1,000 words, I finally get to the point and say simply this…

Happy birthday Big Grandad, and thank you for being yourself.