He was the pillar of our family – any structure or cohesiveness we had dissolved once he was gone, so it hits me fresh once in a while, when my mom and her siblings are arguing, or when holidays come around.

I only have snippets left, really.

My grandpa took me on my first and only crabbing and clamming trips.

He supplied with piles of books as a kid – I rarely read them, but I have a deep affection for books, now, and heap them on my nieces.

I lived in San Diego until I was 4. He once flew down from Oregon and helped me plant radishes.

He’s buried about a block from where I work, so I occasionally pick up a plain black coffee and a maple bar, and walk over to share with him – he gets the coffee and I get the maple bar.

Two and a half hours outside Chicago on the Illinois River, there’s a stretch of gravel path that runs between the train tracks and the river, where the tugs pull the parges under tall rusted-out bridges. My grandfather would walk me down there in the summers, past concrete pylons swarming with boxelders. We’d explore the beach on the south-end of the path. Once, we came on a coyote skull, dried to the bone and bleached white by the sun. We’d always skip stones there along the flowing surface of the river.

My great-grandmother, who liked for us to call her “GG”, was a tough but proper lady. She would give you love pats that would knock the air out of you as she squeezed you tight, and slap your bare thigh to emphasize a point. She always hosted Christmas Day brunch at her house, and would have the tables set for weeks ahead of time. I think I inherited my obsession with etiquette books from her.
She liked to get out her photo albums and show us pictures of our mother and aunts and uncles. If any family member of hers appeared in the local paper, she would cut it out and save it there. This included police reports of speeding tickets given to my aunts–one, in a cheerleading uniform, racing to a football game, another speeding up the hill because, according to her, if she didn’t go fast enough her car wouldn’t make it.
When she was dying, at age 92, she could barely talk. Her mouth was very dry. We would use a cotton swab to rub a moisturizer on her lips, and help her to eat ice. Once, very near the end, I sat next to her on the bed as she drank some water. She choked and coughed, and water and phlegm dripped down her chin. I reached to wipe it with a Kleenex and this frail, dying woman smacked my hand away, took the tissue from me and did it herself. She was so proper and independent, even when she was almost unrecognizably weak.
I love her so much, and I miss her.

My Grandpa died when I was in high school, but my favorite memory of him happened when I was about 8 or 9. My grandparents had come to our house for my brother’s birthday party, and I wanted to go back with them to their house to stay the night. I asked Grandpa if I could bring my bicycle so we could ride to the creek (which he pronounced “crick”) near their house. He, as usual, obliged. He went to pick up my bicycle and put it in the trunk of his Lincoln Town Car when his pants fell right down around his ankles. My entire family was standing in our driveway rolling on the floor laughing as he finished loading my bicycle in his underwear. He was, of course, a good sport about it.

My best friend in OK was also a colleague with whom I collaborated on research. He was the most generous and giving person I had known. Difficulties in our collaboration strained our friendship and I withdrew. In our forties, I knew we had plenty of time to become close again. But we did not, as a swift illness consumed him. I am, now, the age he was when he died.

Most of the time when she would tell a funny story, she couldn’t actually finish because she couldn’t get words out between her fits of laughter. Because of cystic fibrosis and the damage it does to the lungs, she had a really raspy laugh even from a young age. So in the end, none of us really needed her to finish the stories in order to start giggling ourselves…her laugh was always the most effective part.

My sister Trish was an absolute rock in my life. I learned so much from her and she was an early inspiration for me. I like to say that most everything that is good about me is because of her.

She tragically passed away in a house fire 13 years ago but I think about her every day.

A nice April day several years back I took Grandma out to get her vitamins. No matter that research showed they were all worthless; Grandma swore to their potency.

Grandma always checked her receipts…but her eyesight wasn’t what it was. When I told her she wound up not being charged for one of the vitamins, she smiled, grabbed my arm, and made for the car.

That was the last time I ever walked with my Grandmother. A few weeks later she had a stroke and never walked again.

I would love to write about how she recovered and we spent more loving years together, but that’s not how it happened. What followed were months of deterioration and heartbreak for those who loved her.

The last time I saw her, she didn’t show any signs she knew I was there. To no longer be loved by the one who loved me the most has been my most painful loss.

Through it all, I kept the memory of that last time out with Grandma; that smile, that pull, arm-in-arm to the car. I have it, and I treasure it. Thank you Grandma, for all your love.