Oof.

My dear, sweet grandfather went into hospice care on Sunday. He can't swallow, and he can't talk, and all anyone can say is that hopefully, it won't be long. My grandfather fought in the war. No, the big war. He was part of that whole 'defeating Hitler thing' that has meant so much to the world ever since. And his son fought in Vietnam. And died, possibly because of it.

Everyone says Everett is one of the nicest people they know. What I know is that he nursed my grandmother, who had a stroke when I could not have been more than nine, until she died, when I was in college. In all that time, I never heard her speak more than a phrase or two---all the words she had left. He nursed her until the day she died. And, to my knowledge, never complained, not once.

I once watched him play a game of pool with a young man. He worked at teaching the young man how to play, patiently watching as he made mediocre shots. Then the young man lied about a shot. And Grandpa gave hima a chance to come clean. But he didn't. And in two more shots, Grandpa cleaned the table. A lesson there. As long as you are honestly trying, I'll teach you. But as soon as you give less than your best, I will slap you down.

Then set up the triangle to try again.

In his kitchen, Grandpa had a plaque, that said something in fake Latin---I remember one phrase: 'Nobili, demis trux. Si what's inem? Cowsen dux.'. And when I was taking Latin in high school, I liked to study it, and try to figure out how it was like Latin, and how it wasn't. There was also a picture of Pope John Paul on the refrigerator, which was a novelty, and I never asked what it meant to him.

He made the best spaghetti.

He always had bowls of Hershey kisses all over the house for us grandkids.

Auntie Anne lived with them in the spare room on the first floor. She smoked. A LOT. I was a little afraid of her. And then she died.

The upstairs of his house had two rooms, separated by a landing. On the left was the girls' room---my mom and my aunt grew up in that room. On the right was my uncle Jimmy's room. The girls' room had a number of dolls that had lost their hair. My uncle Jimmy's room had a lot of guns. And him. He worked the night shift...er...or something. But he was always sleeping during the day, and when I was sent to bed before everyone else (because I was just a kid), I would listen to him getting up and moving around. And I would be frightened, because I rarely ever saw him. And he always looked a little wild. Like Mr. Edwards, from Little House, but with more guns.

Grandpa would take us kids to the store on the corner, and we would get baseball cards (that was my brother) and bubble gum (me) and then we'd head back, and I'd hang over his shoulder and 'help' him do the crossword puzzle. It must have annoyed him no end that I was chewing my gum in his ear, but he never said a word. He was like that.

At the end of the street was a nasty old pond, that used to be nice, apparently, because everyone had stories about ice skating on it in a long ago Bobbsey-twins time.

Everyone on the street looked after Grandpa, and vice-versa, especially Smitty, next door, who just thought Grandpa was the cat's meow.

He had the best attic over his garage. It seemed like he had saved just everything from when his children were kids. And there were so many toys, and books, and more books and some Breyer horses that I took home with me. They helped pay for my senior year in college. I still had some of the books. I could pull them off the shelf and show you where my mom wrote her name, and under it, I wrote mine.

I never saw him be mean to anyone. I never saw him lose patience with my grandmother. I never saw him lose his temper. He must have had one. And sometimes he must have raged, like when he finally retired from years and years at Monsanto (there was a gold clock!), but his wife was to sick to go anywhere. And that went on for years. There must have been frustrated dreams. And there must have been existential angst about how there was always someone else to care for---sister, wife, son. Still, he got up in the morning, and did his pushups and his situs and rode his exercise bike. And then he did his crossword puzzle. And sometimes, I'd see him put his hand on my grandmother's head, and tell her to "shush. It's all right. Take your time."

When my grandmother died, there was such a wake. So many fantastic stories, and I remember sitting with the great-aunts in a kitchen somewhere, thinking "someone needs to get a tape recorder in here! These stories are amazing!" but no one ever did, and those stories are lost now. Like so many others. And my Grandpa, in his grief, had his favorite picture of her made into a life size oil painting. I was so honored to be the one who got to go with him to the artist. Grandpa was easy-going, in general, but he had his heart set on this, and until he moved in with my aunt, it hung in his living room where he could see it all the time in his waking hours. Bravo, Grandpa, bravo.

He was one of the bravest people I've ever met. From where I sit, he lived his whole life in the service of others. And he didn't whine about it. He just said, "someone needs to take care of this." And then he did it. Soon, he will be gone. And I'm sorry for myself.