The End of an Era

In 1992, my father's father's mother died, at age 107. (I had a great-grandmother until I was about 20.)

In 1994, my father died, at age 51 (a year after walking me down the aisle, for which I am grateful).

And today, 15 years later, my father's father died, at age 92.

He lived for 15 years after his son died, and lived for 41 years longer than his son did, but lived 15 years shorter a life than his mother did. Life can be odd like that.

On our living room sofas are the four cushions my grandfather needlepointed for us, with each of our initials in our choice of colors. He was a hugely accomplished needlepoint fan.

He had lots of little, fun, balancing toys on his living room table, with metal balls that clinked together and metal arcs that rotated.

He had an enormous raspberry patch in his back yard, along with a wood-chopping area at which he worked for hours daily as exercise until his last few years.

He played around eagerly with colors and patterns in computer graphics, which was surprising/impressive for someone of his age/era. But not so surprising if you remember that my dad and my brothers all ended up in the tech industry as well (and I married into it too).

He got up early and went to bed late, and loved chocolate (could I have gotten my passion from him?).

Our last visit to my grandfather was in December, five months ago, when my beloved, wise, generous husband suggested we take a whirlwhind trip across the ocean to see him one more time as his mind was getting noticeably foggier and he was starting to eat less. We took the kids to see their final remaining great-grandparent, and now they will have memories from their ages now (14 and 11). We hadn't seen him for 3.5 years before that, so it was high time, and we didn't know how long he'd have left, despite his mother's marked longevity. And now we are so very happy that we made that crazy, brief trip. Goodbye, Grandpop.