🧠 What My Grandad Forgot—and What I Won’t
Lessons from a Blacksmith Who Built More Than Wagons
Three generations of Glover grit
That’s me and Dennis up front, our dad behind us, and Grandad Ben anchoring the line. The white shed behind us had his blacksmith forge around back—where sparks flew, steel bent, and stories were passed down without a single word wasted.
Grandad Ben used to crack a watermelon over his knee like it was nothing.
He could forge a hinge from scrap metal, grow tomatoes in chat-laced soil, and tell a story so good you forgot to breathe.
He also forgot my name near the end.
Dementia did that—stripped away the fire until only sparks were left.
But I caught a few. Wrote them down. Lit my own torch.
He told us stories on the porch—about NW Arkansas bootleggers, mule teams, close calls, and big grins.
And even after Alzheimer’s stole the punchlines, we remembered how he made us feel:
Like memory was sacred. Like stories could build something that wouldn’t rot.
I won’t forget that.
He couldn’t finish his sentences near the end.
So I finished them for him—with a pen.
And I’ll keep telling his stories until the Gorilla roars loud enough that no one forgets him again.
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🪑 Tag someone who had a porch storyteller in their life
🖼️ Post a photo of your granddad or grandma and share one line you’ll never forget
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