There are so many stories I could tell about my grandpa, but I will tell only one. Grandpa loved taco bell. He was eating there once a week up to the week he died. In fact, his last real meal was reportedly at Taco Bell (although he did eat a bit of ice cream after that as previously mentioned.) Well, he went there so much, that all the Taco Bell employees knew him and would start cooking up his usual order the minute they saw him out in the parking lot. In fact, one day, he decided to change the old routine, parking in the same lot, but heading for the KFC next door. Apparently the manager ran out and stopped him, telling him he was going to the wrong place for lunch! Not only that, but a few of the Taco Bell employees were at Grandpa’s funeral for which we are grateful.
At his viewing, I told my kids to look at Grandpa’s hands. Fingers bent, a bit of them maybe missing, I told the kids that those hands epitomized the life of their hard-working grandpa who moved his family 23 times-- from the time he was discharged after WWII to the time my dad left home—all in order to find dairy and farm work to feed his large family. Hands like that are a fast disappearing sign of the slowly dwindling "greatest generation."
