my grandfather paragraph
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M my grandfather name is is chaitanya sahu my grandfather age is 95 my grandfather is very strong and very old she is very care for me she is story for every night for my sister and me she is very nice and I love you my grandfather.
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My Grandfather- The Gift of My Life
If I could be like anybody, I would wish to become more like my late grandfather, whose memories have inspired me to strive for success, like the smell of old, dusty books which reminds me of his admiration on learning. An avid collector, he had many books, most of which went unread. He owned books on everything from medicine to Spain, to several sets of encyclopedias. After he faced health problems, he came less to the library and read fewer books. They became just part of the scenery, collecting only dust and memories. I have read a few now, after he is gone, and each time it brings back a hurt like a sore that refuses to heal. But I suppose it is a quest of sorts, because if can take on his thirst…show more content…
This house had two floors with three bedrooms on the top floor and the storage rooms, where some of the goats also stayed, on the ground floor. The house was built in the late 1800s before my father was born, it was my grandfather’s skills in organizing family members and his strategic direction, of delegating the business operation to his several sons, according to their skills and abilities. The result is a strong group interaction that has created the foundation of our family business, which is considered one of the most successful family businesses in Yemen. However, I believe it is his independent endeavor that established his early success in business, as is evident by the roughness of his hands, a roughness resulting from the labor of his work throughout his life. At the same time, my father told me he would hold my father's hands, so gently with his rough hands when having a conversation with my father.
The saddest part of my memories of grandpa was the day my father took me along with him to visit my dying grandfather, whose eyes seemed to be drifting aimlessly around the room while his body and face remained numb. I still recall staring at his tanned and wrinkled skin that covered his forearms and showed his veins in painful detail, and at the way he sometimes used his heel to scratch at his other leg.
I suppose it is hard not to notice a kid who has his face turned towards you week after week, year after year. But