I loved my grandpa very much.  Mom says he was a much different grandfather than he was a father.  He was much stricter with his kids, less humorous, more regimental.  My grandpa always had a twinkle in his eye for his grandchildren.  His lap was the seat of honor.  If you mention “Here comes the mouse” or “Itty-bitty buddy” to any of us cousins, memories flood back.  The feel of his armchair, the roughness of tickling fingers, the gravelly sound of his voice, the loss of breath from bear-hugs.  No one could hug like Grandpa.  He once cracked one of Aunt Judy’s ribs, but she never told him because he would feel horrible and would have scaled back on his hugs.  No one wanted that.
 
Grandpa was one of a kind.  He was a skilled plumber, electrician, carpenter.  He loved to fish and camp and ride his motorcycle.  I learned to fish with Grandpa.  I got so I could put the worm on the hook, but I refused to touch the fish.  He took them off the hook for me.  Once, Dad was antagonizing Mom by casting his line where she was trying to fish, and it was all Grandpa could do to stay on the boat, he was laughing so hard.  I also got my taste for wind in my face with Grandpa.  Someday, I will buy a motorcycle, because it will remind me of hanging on to Grandpa’s waist for dear life, screaming with delight while the wind ripped at our clothes.
 
His family and his faith was the cornerstone of his life.  Nothing was more important.  Not by anything he said, but by his actions.  He showed what was important to him by his actions.  Grandpa was like that; my dad is like that.  I’m like that.
 
Grandpa was diagnosed with leukemia in the late eighties or early nineties.   It affected him very slowly.  At first, we couldn’t even tell.  But he got tired more easily, and had to start giving up the activities he loved.  He sold his motorcycle, the camper, the boat.  He built my mom’s wrap-around porch, and that was his last big project.  He started wasting away, losing weight, spending more and more days in his armchair when he wasn’t in the hospital.
 
One of the best stories I have came from this time in his life:  during one of his routine medical tests, they discovered an abdominal aneurysm.  He quickly underwent surgery, and Grandma and Pastor Fredricksen were waiting when he began waking up from the anesthesia.  He was groggy and muttered something unintelligible but urgent, “Mfd buh guhhs.”  Neither Pastor nor Grandma could understand.  “Mfd buh guhhs.”  Pastor finally said, “Your family knows what is in your heart.  You don’t have say anything.”  But Grandpa was insistent.  They finally brought him paper and pencil, and he scratched out, “Feed the cows.”
 
It was tough, watching him waste away from a vibrant man to a waif, barely half of what he used to be.  January 30, 2001, I left work early, because the family was gathering at Grandma and Grandpa’s.   He wasn’t really awake, he wasn’t quite there, but I held his hand and said goodbye.  I watched at the moment he opened his eyes and looked up to the ceiling, as if he could see something the rest of us could not.  Grandma fell to her knees at his side and cried, “Good-bye my love!” and he left to be with his Lord.
 
Grandpa’s death hit me hard.  I threw myself into tax season and very little else.  I cried a lot.  I don’t think I really came out of it until April, when I joined TKD and met the people who are now my very close friends.  Even now, there is something missing from my life.  I notice it most at family gatherings.  Grandpa is there, because he lives in our hearts and our memories, but his presence is missed.  And so are his hugs.