Free Essays on Grandpa Tech

. He left the room, slowly walking down the split-level hallway, his mug held tightly in his knobby hand as my brother and I watched from our bunk bed. His walk was tired as he shuffled down the hallway, painted beautiful early-nineties off-white. His marbled grey hair was up in its typical perm, tightly curled about his small, thin head. His frame showed the wear from seventy plus years of work, bent over ever so slightly to reach a minute height hovering 5’5† in space. His gnarled hands sprouted skinny fingers connected through thick knuckles. His hands shook at a slow pac... Free Essays on Grandpa Tech Free Essays on Grandpa Tech As I begin my freshman year of college, I find myself attaining a degree entirely based upon the teachings of my grandfather. As a young adult of 18, I realize that a Bachelor of Science degree in Engineering Technology could simply be the B.S. of Tom Goranson. He awakened the tinkering gene within me, passed down through the ages. Indoctrinated as a small child, engineering has become a part of my life. He was responsible for molding my constructive abilities into something worthwhile for the general public. I can remember a specific incident with my grandfather when I lived in Kansas. My grandpa, who migrated south from the north woods of Minnesota, decided that he would help his three grandchildren take advantage of the enormous hill that they lived on. Yes, Kansas is not renowned for its gigantic hills; however, 84th Street East was known for its dogleg hill to the south, covered by ancient oak trees. Duplexes lined the streets, every third one or so mimicking the previous few, with the exception of the occupant’s personal belongings littering the lawns and driveways. The morning began promptly at 8:00, because hard edged Swedes are never late for anything. He woke us up in his heavy Minnesotan accent, a straight black coffee fragrance filling the room. â€Å"Hey now, time to get up boys,† his thick accent modifying all of his words. He left the room, slowly walking down the split-level hallway, his mug held tightly in his knobby hand as my brother and I watched from our bunk bed. His walk was tired as he shuffled down the hallway, painted beautiful early-nineties off-white. His marbled grey hair was up in its typical perm, tightly curled about his small, thin head. His frame showed the wear from seventy plus years of work, bent over ever so slightly to reach a minute height hovering 5’5† in space. His gnarled hands sprouted skinny fingers connected through thick knuckles. His hands shook at a slow pac...