fivebyevif

My grandfather died when I was 15. It was sudden — he was 72, and as far as we knew, in good health. As it turns out, he wasn’t, but that’s not here or there.

As a little girl, and even as a young adolescent, my grandfather was everything to me. He was one of the three cooks in my life (the other two were my grandmother and mother), and he had a penchant for good chocolate, jigsaw puzzles, and singing, “Here She Comes, Miss America” whenever I came walking down the stairs.

After they moved back to Ohio, I would come to visit in the summer, and he and I would take long walks through the forest and meadows, collecting wild fruits and bringing them back to my grandmother. Sometimes we had enough for pies, sometimes we had enough for jam, but usually we only had enough to eat out of hand.

I remember my grandfather being wiry, but strong. He insisted on walks after a meal. He was picky, and stayed up very late. He wasn’t afraid to say what he meant. He was intelligent, kind, and he let me put his hair in rollers. He was a positive male rolemodel, and though he’s now been dead longer than he was alive for me, that early influence of a man with a sense of humor and can-do, improvisational attitude has always been a strong force in my life.

When Mike asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday this year, I mused, “You know, I’ve always wanted to see my grandfather’s gravesite.” Mike’s response was, “Then let’s do that.”

And that’s why I love him. Because yesterday, we did. It’s been 18 years, but I finally got there.

I miss my grandfather. It was nice to see him again.

My grandfather's marker.