It has been over fifteen years since you died. About fifteen years since that last time we talked on the phone where you wanted so much to be able to do something for me and I had no clue what to ask for.
I remember you not for our interactions. Grandma was rather dominant in every situation I was in with you. I remember you more for the stories of you. The picture with you on the cable on the Golden Gate Bridge while it was being built. I'm so proud of being related to someone who helped build that, so proud of you.
Your love of tools. The hardware that we have that was yours that Dad talks about, or Gordon, or I. I have a shovel of yours. Don't have much to dig now, but I'm not giving that shovel up. Then there's Mom's feeling that Kevin is so much like you, and I can see some truth in what she says.
I'm sorry I didn't know you better. You for yourself, not as Grandma's henpecked husband. I wish I had known the man who wanted so much to be able to give me something. And I wish I'd told you how proud to be your grandaughter I am.
Be at peace, Grandpa.
Feb. 17th, 1999