As I sat down with a cup of coffee in a cafe to write some Christmas cards on this chilly and windy Sunday afternoon, I get word of my grandpa's passing in an email from home. Though I live thousands of miles and 15 time zones away, I have never felt disconnected from home thanks to Skype, web-cam, instant messaging and email magic. Until now. A web-cam simply cannot give that comforting hug from other grieving family members and a Skype conversation sadly cannot replace an absence at a funeral. My grandpa's death in itself does not sadden me. He lived a long life on Earth and my strong belief in an eternal afterlife with Jesus assures me I will see him again someday in heaven. The disconnect at this time is what saddens me. Not being able to share "grandpa stories" with people who knew him well makes it hard to properly grieve.
Among various titles in his life of husband, father, soldier, carpenter, farmer, etc, etc, my grandfather was a writer. And a good one at that. He had folders and folders full of poem, short stories, and "proverbs." Many that he would find himself writing in the middle of the night. It would be more than fair to say he was a man of many words, in both writing and speaking. Therefore, I find it only appropriate to express my thoughts through writing as a way to honor his life on this earth.
A stroll past Dunkin Donuts today reminded me of The Donut Hole. My first distinct memory of eating donuts is sitting with a tall glass of chocolate milk in The Donut Hole between you and Dan, both with your strawberry bismarks and me with my pudding-filled chocolate long john. You never could convert me to be a bismark lover but you tried your best. Now donuts make me think of the sugary goodness of elephant ears. Elephant ears at the Boone county fair. A week spent away from home in the summertime always meant a week with Dan, grandma and you at the fair. The place where I fell in love with the Tilt-A-Whirl as you watched from afar smoking your classic Sherlock Holmes-style pipe. That pipe makes me think of the deal we cut when I was eight. I would stop sucking my thumb if you would stop smoking your pipe. Your bad habit was a bit more difficult but with some extra nagging from me and a little perseverance you quit. I was a master persuader even as a small child, wasn't I? Difficult situations reminds me of stories from your childhood. Being the oldest of eight brothers and sisters during the Great Depression meant picking potatoes at the age of 12 to help support the family. Potatoes reminds me of your extra sweet, sweet potatoes on Thanksgiving Day. I was your biggest fan. The word fan sparks thoughts of summer which reminds me of clothes lines. Your threats to hang me upside down on the clothes lines did actually worry me a bit but I couldn't let you know that. Hiding emotions makes me think about your WWII army experiences and the late-night poems that revealed much more about that time than you told us for our school assignments or Memorial Day parade. Watching you march in those parades reminds me of the pride and responsibility I feel knowing such tough, honorable and brave genes are in my blood. Feeling proud reminds me of our last hug goodbye just a few, short months ago. "Stay away from that Korean alcohol," you chuckled. Followed by a, "You know I'm proud of you, kid." But mostly, this string of memories reminds me of your constant string of stories and commentary on everything. I know you're entertaining angels with this skill now.
Love you grandpa, see you again someday!
