My grandfather was special. He was a special man. He wasn’t just special — in the way that virtually all grandfathers are special. He was more special than that.
Now, in making that claim, I know I sound like any grandchild might when his grandfather passes away. And if you didn’t know him, then that’s all I could expect you to believe. But if you did know him, then you already know what I’m saying is true.
But I didn’t always know my grandfather was special. As a child I only knew that he was my grandpa. I knew he was fun. I knew he was nice. I knew he looked me in the eye when he talked to me and never condescended to me. I knew that my parents, my aunts, my uncles, and my cousins all loved him and loved to be around him.
But I was just a kid. For all I knew, he was exactly like every other grandfather. It was only very slowly that I realized that he was not just any grandfather.
I began to have suspicions when I was only ten or twelve, because of grandpa’s daily trip into town. If I was visiting, he’d invite me to come along, and I’d hop into his truck with him, and we’d run whatever errands he needed to run that day. This always included a stop at the post office, where he’d greet what seemed like every person in town. After that we’d often stop at the bank, where he’d greet every employee by name. He didn’t stop at just the teller that helped him — he’d walk down the line of tellers.
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