December 21, 1936 - August 18, 2011

He squeezed you like he meant it when he hugged.

He grew the best tomatoes.

He could be silly, even at the end.  (I so wish I had my camera when he showed the girls how to go down the twisty slide at the park.)

He stored trash bags and paper towels in his 800 pound safe.

He loved to eat, but wouldn't touch something if he knew it had butter in it.

He was the hardest worker I've ever known, working 70 hours a week until the cancer and chemo forced him to stop.

He was handy.

He watched Lifetime movies.

He adored his grand babies.  Nothing made him happier than holding them.

He could talk your ear off on the phone.

He was brave, never letting on how much pain he was in.

His garden was always immaculate.

He was a hunter, a farmer, a maintenance worker, a trolley driver, a gardener, and a truck driver.

He loved his sisters, and still called Patsy his baby sister.  He tried to keep his siblings together when times got tough after his parents left them, and he worked to reunite them later.

He had true and loyal friends, the kind who drop everything to help you load stuff up and do whatever they can when they hear the bad news.

He bounced me on his knee when I was little, and asked me who his little boy was.  When I'd say "Grandpa, I'm not a boy", he'd ask where his monkey was.  When I'd say "Grandpa, I'm not a monkey!", he'd exclaim, "Sure you are.  I see your curly tail!"

 He taught me how to add.

He killed the biggest spider I've ever seen (that wasn't in a cage.)  That spider can still make me shudder.

He showed his love by giving you produce from his garden, seeds, and plants.  And when he said he'd give you some turnips, you'd end up with a grocery bag full of turnips.  If he gave you tomatoes, you'd go home with 30 or 40 pounds of tomatoes.


He believed in putting 100 cans of everything back each year.

He was my Grandpa.  And I miss him.