John Doe
Narrative

Monkeying Around A couple of years ago, I was mowing the lawn in my grandmother’s backyard. It was extremely hot and the sun was beating down relentlessly. Then all of a sudden, I spotted an object under the six inches of grass. I picked up the faded pink object only to discover that is was a monkey. Not a real monkey, but one of those monkeys from those Barrels of Monkeys. At that moment when I first realized that it was a monkey, I immediately thought of my grandfather. He had passed away some eight or nine years before when I was very young. The reason I had thought of my grandfather at that moment is because when my brother, sister, and I were younger, we would toss the monkeys up onto the electrical wire that stretched across my grandfather’s yard. The small monkey with the hooked arms and a slight discoloration from the dirt had brought back many great memories. My grandfather had taught us the art of tossing monkeys to the best of his ability. Touching the monkey again, rubbing it like a rabbit’s foot or a lucky coin, I was reminded of what a great friend, artist, and grandpa he was. Grandpa was considered a short man, but to me he was always a giant. His frail figure was always clothed in drab brown colors, certainly not of the times. He also wore a pair of brown corduroy slippers with holes that he swore he was just breaking in. He also always had a five o’clock shadow of white whiskers. He was an all-around grandpa just like anyone else’s. My brother, sister and I would watch him draw for hours. Through my grandpa, my dad had also inherited the talent to draw, which I have also inherited to some extent. My grandfather was a commercial artist; he could draw anything and more. He always took the time from his hundreds of projects and creations to teach me and show me the way. He saw that I had potential at such a young age. With my pencil and eye, I tried to recreate Grandpa’s work, and it was good enough for any grandpa’s pride. The hours we spent together I remember the most: watching cartoons, especially He-Man and She-Ra, and then Grandpa drawing his own He-Man and She-Ra comics for us. There was also Monchichi, another monkey in our lives. He was a cute and cuddly monkey; the name alone, Monchichi, when spoken by Grandpa, made us laugh with delight. Grandpa could help me with anything I needed and always had ideas flowing. He kept files and clippings of anything and everything to refer back to. His imagination could be sparked with a minimum of an idea, turning it into something great and magnificent. My dad always said, “Don’t get him started or his creative juices will overflow.” He would become so enraptured in whatever he was doing, the next thing you knew, it was four in the morning and the pot of coffee had burned through. After nights like that, my parents