So, my grandfather passed away last night at 81 years old.  His heart basically just gave up on him.

Papa, as I knew him, was an amazing man.  One of the most honest and decent people I have ever known.

In his youth he was a paratrooper in the Army.  He was part of the occupational forces in Japan after World War II. 

He was also a boxer, and while in the service he almost killed a man in the ring, and then would never step foot in another.

He raised my mom and her brothers in San Jose and San Francisco, but after they graduated high school he did something that I’m not sure anyone ever quite understood: he packed their things up, and he and my grandmother moved to Arkansas, where they had purchased a chicken farm. An egg farm, to be more precise.

And that’s how I remember him.  The southern farmer, with that slow Arkansas drawl.  He was quiet, but had one of those big hearty laughs that couldn’t help but make you smile. 

For me, growing up, he was always 10 feet tall and bullet-proof.

He and I had a close relationship, but he never had pinned down how to show affection to women.  So we showed our love through our sarcasm.  Which, I can say 100% that man is where I get both my stubbornness and a lot of my wit.  We called each other names, and punched each other playfully (keep in mind he was an ex-boxer.  Even in his later years he was freakishly strong..so..that was fun). 

I loved him.

He and my grandmother were married for 62 years. 

Their love survived her Alzheimer’s, as well as cancer, heart attacks, 3 children, 6 grandchildren, great grandchildren, great-great grandchildren, moves, wars, financial hardships and 40 years on a chicken farm in Arkansas. 

She is at the point in her disease where she does not recognize anyone.  But, this morning when told what had happened she sat alone and cried.