When I was just a little girl
About five or six I guess
I'd go to visit Grandpa
And stir up quite a mess.
Grandpa never minded
At least, I thought so then
And when I wanted something
He'd put it in my hand.
When I grew a little older
About eight or nine years old
He'd tell me all about his job
And stories other men had told.
Grandpa never minded
About the job he had
And the thing that always amazed me
Was that Grandpa never got mad.
In those younger days of mine
Grandpa looked so strong
He always seemed to know the right
And never did the wrong.
Now I look and I can see
The deep lines in his face
And now I realize when he works
He has to keep a steady pace.
Grandpa still keeps telling me
He has no fearsome cares
But I can hear him breathing hard
When he tries to climb upstairs.
I've watched him sitting by himself
I've seen his worried face
He's getting older, I can tell
By the way he walks - his slowing pace.
My Grandpa is my Grandpa
And to me he'll always be
As strong and young as he ever was
The heart only knows what the eye can't see.
Cathy Roy
'81
Dedicated to my Granpa John W. Thomas
