It was with sadness a few weeks ago that we saw the passing of my Grandpa Ted.  It was the kind of sadness that I'd been expecting for awhile, the kind where someone hasn't been living a full life for a few years, and a limited life for awhile.  Last Friday we buried Grandpa at Fort Snelling next to my Grandma where she's been waiting for him to join her for almost six years.  I've written and rewritten this entry for weeks now, having a hard time settling on just what I wanted to say. 

It's been different for me this time, losing a grandparent I mean, having to explain over and over again the loss to my kids.  Probably once a day Martin or Sophie will mention that Grandpa Ted has died, and after all the discussion, I thought that the idea was pretty well-settled in my mind.  But despite all the talking, I was still so sad on Friday, his absence tangible in the gathering of his family and friends.

He had the most fantastic white hair, often seemingly coordinated with a matching white belt and shoes.  He could play the harmonica, one year playing happy birthday for me on the world's tiniest model, only about 1-1/2" long.  He and my Grandma would come to Grandparent's Day events at my school, often times the ones who had traveled the greatest distance.  When we were kids, Grandma and Grandpa would travel South for the winter and to make the trip, they drove the COOLEST van on earth.  It had a bed and a fridge and an 8-track player.  Grandpa always gave me a dollar folded very neatly so that he could slip it in my hand when we parted.  He was a terrific dancer, always willing to take me for a spin on the dance floor.  He saved EVERYTHING and loved to tie his collections into neatly sorted bundles.  And he loved babies, it thrilled me each time I saw him holding mine.

Grandpa and Martin, 2003


Grandpa and Sophie, 2005

Rest in peace, Grandpa.  And know that Martin is putting your string collection to use daily.