Grandad’s surgery

Hubby is my hero.
He is also pretty good with a needle, so it comes as no surprise that he is responsible for Grandad’s makeover.
The pilot in this picture is Rembrandt (but that’s another story).
Grandad is my bear, the keeper of my childhood secrets, a bear that is just a few months younger than I, a bear I would not have had his predecessor not been stolen off my pram when I was a baby.

Grandad has not been well.
His sense of smell had gone for a bucket of chalk, and his chin was sporting whiskers that fell out by themselves without shaving.
But the main concern was for his hands and feet, which are showing their age.
There are no liver spots as the original leather pads have disintegrated, and my mother’s caring darns of yesteryear are hardly holding them together now.

Yesterday, we purchased felt and silks, and Hubby worked his magic.

The top picture in the above sequence shows Grandad sporting a new nose and repaired chin which Hubby did last night.

Grandad was very brave and didn’t cry out once whilst the cosmetic surgery was taking place. He suffered the indignity of being upside down whilst prodded and poked with a needle and thread, shuddered as rotten fabric was cut away to give him extra stuffing support in his left wrist, and winced as he was squeezed and manipulated into shape.
The material on his arms has also started to rot away, so Grandad has dual functional paddypaws that double up as mittens.

This is how he looks now:

I can explain the pants.
They date back to around 1962 when my Great Grandmother visited and made my sister and I new frocks. To protect my bear’s modesty (he also used to wear a purple net tutu, another of Gran’s creations originally being a petticoat), she made them for him out of one of the scraps.

We can’t do anything about his baldness, but we can buy him a little romper suit to keep him warm.

Dr Hubby is a miracle worker.
(Thanks, Love).

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