My Most Immortal Person
A Little History with my Grandfather
The most immortal person for me is my grandfather. He was a farmer, his name was Roy, and he died when I was 13.
He still lives on in my mind, in memories of pinwheel cookies with chocolate milk and memories of counting pennies to share with cousins and memories of the old farmhouse.
That farmhouse was the home I wish I’d had. It was filled with warmth and understanding and warmth.
My grandfather, Papa Roy, listened to my dreams and nurtured them. He knew what made me happy and tried to make it happen. He loved me and made sure I knew it.
Our birthdays were one day apart, his on March 5th and mine on the 6th. Every birthday I can remember before he passed we spent together.
Most often we went to the pancake breakfast at my school. That was a standing date for the two of us. My favorite recent birthday was when a friend took me to the pancake breakfast at the school and then to have pinwheel cookies and chocolate milk at the cemetery.
It may sound odd, but it was a terrific birthday, celebrating my grandpa and reminiscing.
My Papa Roy was a farmer and didn’t have a lot of finances, but he managed to make me feel so special that I can still remember it today.