Goodbye, Grandpa

My grandpa died at the end of May, and I've put off this post long enough. I haven't been sure exactly what to write.

This was my mom's dad, and growing up we saw him and my grandma all of the time. Like, at least every week if not more. They lived only a few miles away -- close enough that I once rode my bike there -- and there was a standing engagement to play euchre more Saturdays than not. When we were lucky (and we usually were), Grandma would make popcorn, too.

Grandpa was a bricklayer and farmer, two professions that take a toll on a body. But he loved to tell stories and seemed to know everyone in town. And he easily spoke to anyone he came across. Growing up we took two long road trips with them -- one from Ohio to Texas, and the other to South Dakota -- and he never met a stranger.

No surprise that when I moved away from home I saw them much less, and Covid meant I had barely seen them at all during the last few years. When Grandpa's health worsened in May, we decided the risk was worth it and visited. I'm glad we did so, if only to give him one more chance to mention how I used to call him Bunkle when I was little. (Still no idea why!)

His funeral was a few days before Memorial Day, and it was a family reunion like we hadn't had in quite some time. Aunts and uncles, cousins and extended family -- many of whom I hadn't seen in years. I probably laughed too much since that's my usual response to anything uncomfortable. But despite the sad occasion, it was nice to see everyone. I think Grandpa would have liked that.