I wasn’t going to post anything on this, but my Grandfather, Dr Hamish Neale, died early Thursday morning. He was 95 years old and the most awesome person I have ever known.

He was 95.

I’ll always know him as Gramps, and my memories of him are sacred to me. Not a month ago he quite literally gave me the blue bird of happiness. It looks a lot like the Twitter bird. The reason I’m saying all of this is that Gramp’s life was full. He helped thousands of people, raised a family, spoiled his grand-kids and still found time to write his own poetry and study Shakespeare (he got in the odd whiskey and All Blacks game too). His life has inspired several stories, and his death has inspired another one, which I’ll start after my current work, Downside (working name) is done.

I know all writers take from the world around them for their stories, and I feel that death should be included in that. At first I felt guilt that my brain immediately spat out a story for me when I got the call to say he’d gone, but after some contemplation (and a much appreciated cuddle from my girlfriend) I realized that I have been training myself to think that way.The most comfort I could give myself during the horrible, stomach dropping feeling you get when one of those calls comes in, was to spin a tale in my mind where Gramps wasn’t gone, just changed.

We tell stories, at least in part, to shed light on the dark places in our world. Without stories we don’t know who we were, who we are or who we’ll be tomorrow. Gramps was my inspiration from yesterday, he helped make me who I am today, and tomorrow I hope I can show people how great they can be by seeing his example.

Rest in peace Gramps, thanks for all the stories… and for the bluebird.