Today would have been my grandfather's 97th birthday. He passed away in January, and I didn't have the words then to speak about it. Eleven months later I still don't, and it's likely that they will not be soon forthcoming. His life seemed like something of a storybook, growing up in early 20th Century Manhattan, going out to Williams College, eschewing Harvard Business for Yale Divinity. He and my grandmother were married 68 years. A stroke in the 1980s took much of his physical strength, including his ability to drive, though he still enjoyed croquet and his evening walks. And pruning. Every time I visited their house in the summertime he seemed to be pruning something. Another stroke about six years ago took much of his ability to speak, which was hard, but the twinkle in his eye and a shrug of his shoulders communicated more than most people could in 10,000 words.
I love him, and I miss him dearly.
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