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Please begin with an informative title:

Welcome, fellow travelers on the grief journey
and a special welcome to anyone new to The Grieving Room.
We meet every Monday evening.
Whether your loss is recent, or many years ago;
whether you've lost a person, or a pet;
or even if the person you're "mourning" is still alive,
("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time),
you can come to this diary and say whatever you need to say.
We can't solve each other's problems,
but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.

Unlike a private journal
here, you know: your words are read by people who
have been through their own hell.

There's no need to pretty it up or tone it down.  It just is.

April 29, 2004, was the most difficult day of my life.

You must enter an Intro for your Diary Entry between 300 and 1150 characters long (that's approximately 50-175 words without any html or formatting markup).

'Poppa' was born March 10, 1923, the second of five sons. He began working at the famous Ford Motor Company plant in Dearborn, Michigan, in the late 1930s. His time there was interrupted by his service in World War II.

When he retired from Ford in 1987 (right around the time I was born), he had logged 45 years with the company. Forty-five years with the same company! Oh, and did I mention he was a proud member of the UAW?

Aside from that, he liked gardening. I credit his love for gardening and his love of nature for my own passion for this thing we call Planet Earth.

And in case I need to tell you, he was one heck of a Democrat. In 2001 he got a calendar from the DNC featuring pets of famous Presidents. He let his 13-year-old politically astute grandson (me) have it.

But first and foremost, he was a family man. Boy, did he love his wife of 50-some years - who survived him until her death last August - as well as his three kids, and his six grandchildren. In a small way, his love for all of us made up for my never being able to know my other grandfather, who died two years before I was born.

Poppa was often present at Dad's Monday night bowling games with the local Knights of Columbus council league. For several years in a row, he won something in a raffle at Kentwood's Fourth of July Pancake Breakfast. He and my grandma attended as many of my band concerts as they could.


The night before, my grandpa was taken to the emergency room. As it turned out, he suffered a massive heart attack, likely caused by his laboring to breathe due to his bout with pneumonia.

I knew something was wrong when, shortly after lunch, my English teacher told me that I had an early dismissal (he was hospitalized the night before). As I got into the car, Mom told me that he hadn't died yet, but was in horrible shape. Once I heard my brother Dereck crying in the front seat, I knew it was really bad.

When I got to the hospital, my dad told me it would be just a matter of hours. I cried like a baby, as did Grandma, my parents, and Dereck. I couldn't bear to stay. Mom, Dereck, and I went home just after 1:30.

Just as we walked in the door, a phone call.

He died.

Two days later we went to the funeral home in Taylor for the first day of visitation. His body was in an open casket.

Seeing that lifeless body... that's when it hit me. Never again would I hear him tell his stories about the war, growing up during the Depression, raising three kids. His Fourth of July raffle winning streak was over.

The next day, as we got out of the car at the funeral home, two mallard ducks wandered their way in front of the funeral home door. Coincidence? I don't think so. You see, my other grandma - who had passed away three years earlier - loved mallard ducks. We saw these ducks as a sign from above - that Grandma was watching over us and wanted us to be able to find peace.

At the funeral I managed to give a eulogy of sorts. My aunt wrote a poem that encompassed his love for his family, gardening, and lemon meringue pie.

He was laid to rest on a beautiful, sunny day in early May. (Just a couple days earlier it had been snowing! It's Michigan, after all!)

Nine years later, I don't know how he would have handled what has happened to working people, especially in Michigan. It would not have made that UAW retiree happy. My aunt remarked a couple years ago that if he saw how expensive gas was getting, that would've given him a fatal heart attack.

Still, most of the emotional pain following his death has been replaced with warm memories. I still miss him, but I am at peace, knowing he has found an even more lasting peace.

Extended (Optional)

Originally posted to Live from Kentwood, It's... ScottyUrb! on Mon Apr 29, 2013 at 07:09 PM PDT.

Also republished by The Grieving Room.

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