Today I learned that my grandfather’s younger brother died on Monday. I think this may make my grandfather, the oldest of his seven siblings the last surviving one.
I didn’t know Cecil well, I’d only really met him a handful of time, but I was extremely fond of him.
My oldest memory of him was when I was ten or so. He just driven down from Minnesota and brought with him fresh un-processed milk from my uncles farm. The cream just sat on top and when you stirred it up it was the best milk I’d ever had.
I got the nick name “Pistol Pete” from him that trip and for the life of me I can’t remember why, but every time I’ve seen him since, I was always Pistol Pete.
I’m sad for my grandfather. He is an amazing man and has been through so much in his life. I’m thankful that at 96 he is still smart, witty and independent. And while he has watched his siblings die, he has been be blessed to still have his wife by his side, for as much as she drives him crazy, he loves her with all his heart.
Learning of Cecil’s death has made me want to go visit them again. We last went down there five years ago and it was a bit of a…hmm…let’s just say we determined we never wanted to return. But I love them. I want them to get to see Isaac more and we now have friends down there. Maybe we’ll have to find a way to go this year sometime.