Memorial

I dreamt about my grampa last night.  I guess it’s only fitting, being memorial day weekend and all.  He died in 1992 and I still miss him.  He was the type of person who would go back and tell the chef, or cook, that he loved the meal.  He was big on family.  He was always behind a camera or camcorder, making memories; we were always in front, shooing him way.  He made his own wine; some of which was really, really bad.  He’d just shrug and laugh and try again the next year.   He was a nutter – much to the exasperation of my grandma at times.  But we still relive some of his better schticks; and it still makes us roar with laughter.  He was a gentleman.  He did not believe in crossing lines, taking over, or pretending to know it all.  I still remember him sitting me down – not long before he died – and telling me, for my sake, to forgive my father.  That he believed I would, in my own time.   He didn’t scold, or talk down.  He was a hard worker.  While many of us would rejoice in any reason to get out of work, he continued even when cancer had taken over.  He worked until he simply could not work any longer.    He touched lives with the concern in those baby blues, with that ornery smile, with that quiet dignity.

Often times I think it highly unfair he was taken so soon.   He never got to know the spouses of his grandkids; he never got to know his great-grands – including the one who is  his splitting image or the one named in his honor.   Nor will they get to know him. 

And then it hits me.  It’s up to to those of us who did know him, to be a mirror.  

Maybe that’s what memorial day is all about.  Thinking of all those who have come into our lives and left a footprint that will never fade.  We know the traits that have touched our own lives.  What better memorial than turning around and passing them on …