This is a painting I did of my grandfather, who we used to call Gar.  He used to come and stay with us and he used to sleep in our sleep out.  He would shine our shoes, sometimes putting a florin (2 shilling piece) in our shoes as a surprise.  He would tell great stories and I never once heard him raise his voice or say a cross word about anyone.  He was a gentle giant, and, like the BFG, had very long ears.  I remember that he used to sit under a weeping willow tree at the end of our yard and we would all sit on the ground around him mesmerised by his apple peeling and tall stories.  He would pull out his pocket knife and peel apples in on long spiral of peel, then dextrously cut it and offer up slices to us from the end of the knife.  He was a lovely gentle man.

My brother wrote this poem about Gar.

GAR

He was old and grey and white

Sharp as his knife,

Tobacco in his lap. (Erinmore Flake)

When I caught a feather he put it in his hat,

For luck.

He had six daughters

And a crook leg where a horse kicked him.

He drove a team for a week at a time.

Tall and strong

Farm-hard

An outdoor, verandah-sitting, pipe-smoking man.

Told good stories,

Gave off goodness.

Taught Richie Benaud how to bowl.