Grandpa,

I remember a lot about our life together. I remember asking you to translate English words into Swedish because they sounded so funny. I remember your easy laugh and smile. I remember your stories of growing up poor in Sprague in a big family; with you and your brothers chopping ice out of Lake Huron and storing it in sawdust for the whole year. I remember our own times together on the lake; sometimes relaxing while cutting smoothly through the glassy North Channel; sometimes afraid together, out in 13 foot swells because the nets had been in the water too many days.

I remember the delicious whitefish you made in your smoker in the summer and how much you loved those passion flakey boxed pastries. I remember the cookies I'd get every afternoon at your house on our lunch break when we were re-building the Betty J. Dad and I would watch The Rockford Files and you would fall asleep half way through . I remember your very poor decision-making at the grocery store when shopping for overnight trips on the fishing boat. Like, for instance, the time you bought pizza-flavoured hot dogs endorsed by the ninja turtles. And I remember Christmas-Eve Dinners at your house where I would be forced by my parents to eat the terrible (to my non-Scandinavian taste buds) salt fish you would make and thoroughly enjoy.

You knew how to do more things than anyone I've ever met. Your entrepreneurial spirit had led you to start many businesses and hold a lot of different jobs. You loved going to auctions because you knew the value of every tool or machine, and could get a good deal on something others didn't appreciate. You could wire a house, rethread any pipe to fit as needed, drive a truck of any size (your story about getting your drivers license was one of my favourites), or fix the refrigeration on our huge walk-in freezers. I remember being in awe of the sheer number of tools you had in your workshop; tools for any conceivable job.

The last few years were hard for you. Alzheimer’s had taken away your ability to remember who we were. I'm glad that you could still feel and know that we were important to you, and that you were comforted by being near us and hearing our voices. I'm glad that you could stay at my house in Elmira for a few hours some afternoons and we could talk about hunting or fishing or what life was like when you were growing up.

When I was young, I remember how huge and powerful you were, the biggest person I knew. When I came to visit you on Christmas Day you were not the same massive, rugged man I knew when I was small. Your body had aged and was rounded at the edges. You were confused and frustrated. You were tired but you couldn't sleep, and you told me your heart was sore.

The best time that day, though, and my last memory of you, is praying with you before I left. It was hard for me. I don't know if you could tell, but I was crying a lot while we were praying. Although you had been restless, as soon as you started praying your voice became calm and soft and rhythmic. Talking to God came easy to you, even then, when few things did, and as you asked the Lord to be with us, I felt Him there. When we were done praying, you were at peace, and you laid down to take a nap. I pulled a blanket over you and left to the sound of your deep breathing.

I hope that if I get to my eighties like you, even if, like you, I can't remember the names of those I love, I will, like you, have cultivated such a true and loving connection to our Creator that it will still be a deep part of me. I am really glad you are at peace and that these last few difficult days are behind you. I'm looking forward to seeing you again and maybe sharing a meal (but, please, no salt fish).

I love you and I miss you.