Thursday, November 30, 0002
I wrote this before I knew what kind of service we'd be having. My original thought was to read it there, but I had the honor of reading mom's letter to the people gathered to remember Grandpa. I still want to share it. This seemed a good place to do that. When I was five or six, I was sure Grandpa Phil must look just like God. Or maybe it was the other way around. But as time passed and we got to know each other better, I had the true privilege of coming to know him as the very good, very caring, very funny man he was – more interesting and alive than any kind of divine perfection could be. We lived a thousand miles apart, but he was always just a phone call away if I needed advice on fixing something or adding an electrical outlet somewhere. That wasn’t all, though. He’d always ask about my wife Jamie and our sons Alec and Danny. And he’d always ask about our crazy dog, our house and my car – how was everything working? This was a man who genuinely loved hearing about his family and keeping tabs on everybody. What a success story to leave behind so many people who he touched so deeply. Over the years, through his generosity, many of his tools found their way to my workbench, where they still see regular use. I always feel a sense of pride and nostalgia when I reach for a tool he gave me and notice his first name either written with a black marker or engraved into the handle. It seemed he labeled pretty much everything. Just last week, Alec and I were working on a repair using one of Grandpa Phil’s tools, and I made sure – as I always do when that happens – to tell him where the tool came from. Grandpa wasn’t a man to talk about his accomplishments or experiences. You actually had to drag it out of him. But once he got going on a subject, you knew you were in for a treat. He had funny stories about all kinds of things he’d done, from barnstorming around Illinois with his partners in an airplane they bought, to the early days of his marriage to Grandma Elinor on the frozen plains of North Dakota, to his shenanigans as a civilian working for the Army in Boca Raton, Florida. His formal education was interrupted by World War II, after just a short time in college. He joined the Army Air Corps just after Pearl Harbor, providing many more good and interesting stories. One of the most striking to me was a letter he wrote – I don’t remember who it was intended for – after he flew over parts of Europe that had been bombed. He could be a very eloquent writer with a great eye for description. He painted a verbal image of devastation that has stayed with me for years. Through his life, he found ways to feed his love for aircraft and for aviation in general. I had aspirations of being a pilot when I was younger, and I have very clear memories of him telling me that with all the bureaucracy and rules pilots have to follow these days, it’s not quite as much fun as it was back before the FAA, back before huge airliners had to share airspace with small planes, business jets and helicopters. That was back when he was selling plane rides for three dollars – just enough to buy fuel to be able to keep flying. That wasn’t a business – there was no profit involved. It was just a way to be able to keep that Stearman up in the air. While his formal education ended with his decision to join the military, his informal education never stopped. He had an insatiable curiosity about how things worked. Not just mechanical things, but the world in general. I’m sure he wore out dozens of library cards in his quest for more knowledge. I could go on for hours. I haven’t even touched on his gardening, his sculpting, his painting. Anything he decided he wanted to do, he did. And did well. It’s a great lesson for all of us, and one I try to remember all the time: When you set out to do something, make sure to do it right. And then, clean up after yourself. Only then is the job done. It applies to so much in life. Grandpa Phil was a remarkable man. I loved being around him, working with him on a project or a repair, or just shooting the breeze. I don’t regret that we lived in different states. Really the only thing I’d change, if I could, would be to go back to the 1930s and get to know him, and hang out with him. I feel sure we’d have been great friends.
