"Hitler Heard My Footsteps!"

My Grandfather passed away just over two weeks ago and, being in Korea, I was unable to be there to be for the funeral. I wrote a short tribute which I posted on another site but you have to open an account of your own in order to access it. Since I now have this more accessible blog, I thought I'd add it here:

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Tuesday, December 05, 2006
"Hitler Heard My Footsteps!"

The great thing about Grandparents - my Grandparents, at least - is that they're just like your Mum and Dad but without all the bad bits: arguments, yelling matches, the horror that is being fourteen. They're always pleased to see you and happy to hear from you and you don't quite take them for granted as much. They love you just as much as your folks do and you know that they'll always be proud no matter what.

The trouble is, I never got to tell my Grandpa just how proud I am of him.

Proud that he never grew tired of getting to know the people that came in and out of his life. What would be a forgettable, blink-of-the-eye encounter for most of us was bread and butter to Bill's life. How many waiters and waitresses, doctors and nurses, barbers and bakers, neighbours and strangers did he get to know over the course of his life? And, crucially, did he ever forget any of them? Family dinners were invariably littered with tales of these people he'd meet and I, for one, often had trouble keeping up - but he never did!

Proud that he always did what was right. What could've been going through his young mind as he departed Canada in 1939 to serve in the Second World War, his loving parents knowing all too well the horrors a quarter century earlier? In more recents times he showed an admirable determination to stay as healthy and as active as possible even if it meant altering his diet or exercise regimen. Some stubbornly refuse to admit that they might be slowing down; Bill harboured so such illusions and did what he could to live a long and healthy life.

Proud of the sense of humour that never left him. My fondest memory of my Grandpa was sitting on his lap and asking him how the war ended: "Hitler heard my footsteps," he replied and naturally I believed him. Around the same time he concocted a fictional dog named Sport who never seemed to be around whenever we'd visit ("He's out having a run" was the usual explanation). Again, I never doubted him for a second; how could I ever second guess my Grandpa?

And proud, finally, that he lived such a wonderful life. You've done everyone proud.