My maternal grandfather, whom we referred to as "Pop", died of lung cancer in 2009. He was as opinionated and as independent as they come. He did not care one bit of the opinions of others, a fact which was great cause for distress when my mother was growing up. She would often tell me of an instance in which he'd come to one of her school-productions, barefoot and wearing an old stained t-shirt and shorts. Coupled with his long hair and beard, he must've been a sight. "Who let that wino in?" A student whispered to my mother. "I don't know..." Responded she, hoping, according to her, very much that no one would discover that "wino" was related to her in any way.
He was a genius carpenter as well, earning the nickname "Jesus" from my mother's schoolmates due to his long, unkempt hair and, as I've mentioned earlier, proclivity for walking about shoeless. My father worked under him for sometime and has told of my Pop's admirable skills. He would scan the blueprints for a moment, then toss it aside and work out how he wished to do it himself. A building doesn't seem the sort of thing a person should improvise upon, which I suppose makes the fact that they never crumbled or anything like that much more admirable.
It wasn't until after his death that my parents began sharing stories about him. I've apparently a great deal in common with him, or so my mother says.
I didn't very much like when he would visit as a young girl because he was quite loud and that frightened me very much. Even as I got older, and was no longer frightened by loud noises, speaking to people whether they were family or not simply wasn't an easy thing to do. Left with only stories, I can confidently say Pop was quite a character.