Saying Goodbye to Gramps

My grandpa passed away a week before Thanksgiving. I’m really fortunate because, at 26, this is the first major family death I’ve ever experienced. I’ve lost friends to accidents and suicide, and a countless number of distant aunts, uncles, and cousins to a variety of ailments, mostly age-induced. But Grandpa’s memorial service found me in the dreaded front row, and although that’s where I usually choose to sit during a lecture or meeting, this first-pew seat was the last place I wanted to be.

Although technically he’s my grandpa, he would’ve stepped into that role for you, too, if you wanted. He may have saved his heartiest hugs for his bride of 57 years, or his kids or grandchildren, but there certainly was enough room in that embrace for others. A few years ago, while the rest of my family grumbled about me bringing along a friend who couldn’t get home for the holidays, my grandpa went out of his way to make my friend feel welcome and part of our crew.

When I was little, Grandpa would ask me if I wanted to “go farming,” and we’d go out to the backyard and he’d help me push my tiny fingers into the dirt to plant tomato seeds and squash. Gramps taught me about how plants grow, and about how they need just the right blend of sunshine and water. After a little bit of work, he’d hold up the garden hose and we’d drink its sun-warmed water. “This is really living, buddy,” he’d tell me at some point. “Grandpa sure does love you.”