In Entry No. 33, I speak about how I am currently feeling called to share the stories and memories of some of my loved ones who have passed, even if no one ever reads it. This urge came to me in a dream that I woke up from, feeling unable to deny the request from the other side. 

The following morning, I discovered writing that was 10 years old, written by a 16-year-old girl about the very people I was feeling called to write about. The 26-year-old me found these writings, and I have chosen to incorporate bits of that writing in this piece and next week as well. The excerpts about my grandpa are taken from a scholarship essay that I wrote around a prompt about tobacco awareness. As my Grandpa passed away directly related to his smoking when he was younger. 

I have signified something that was written by 16-year-old Morgan in a blue font. 

I don’t want this entry to be an entire biography about my grandpa, but I do want to honor some of my favorite memories and stories of him. The ones that I think should be told. 

I understand if this is not your style or if you're not interested in this post. I will see you in a few weeks when we are back to our regularly scheduled content. If you want to hear a few stories and memories about a kick-ass man, you have come to the right entry.

My grandpa was named Howard, but anyone who knew him called him Pete. He was a no-frills kind of man, he worked hard, he drank cheap beer, he had enough plaid shirts to wear a different one every single day and still have some leftover, he loved his family, he was a prankster, he was an Air Force Veteran, he collected dimes, he loved animals, he always had a bandana in his pocket, and he was an incredible person.

One of my most vivid memories of my grandpa was sadly one of the last I have of him.

“When I was 9 years old, I clearly remember stopping by my grandparents’ house one evening. As my mom and I sat talking with my grandparents, my grandfather was using his nebulizer to aid in the treatment of his COPD, resulting from smoking cigarettes.  It was the first time I could see on his face how the disease was taking its toll on his body.  As my grandfather took his treatment, he looked at me and said, “If I ever see you pick up a cigarette, I will break your damn arm. While his statement may seem harsh and perhaps even abusive to some, it left an indelible mark on me.  Not physically, but emotionally.  It was at that moment that I realized how much my grandfather truly cared for me and my well-being. In less than 4 months from that day, my beloved grandfather passed away.”

That was the first and only time in my life that I heard him swear. 

He was traditional in the sense that he would swear around his buddies and men but never around women or children unless you accidentally snuck up on him, of course. 

I remember that moment so vividly because I thought, “Wow, Grandpa is serious about this.” I stayed true to the promise I made him, and to this day, I have never smoked anything in my life. In fact, if you know me in real life, I often stop people from smoking or encourage them to quit. I won’t ever break that promise to him, and I won't stop trying to help others from the dangers of smoking. 

My Grandpa was a fighter. I think that I got some of my fighting spirit from him. I also think my Grandpa was more spiritually aware or sensitive than he realized. He often noticed things that others did not. When I was younger, he called me “marked” to my mother. He said that being since my mom was pregnant with me during the murder of my grandmother that I was “marked.” I know he meant it as a compliment, and over the years, my family has seen what he meant by that statement, but I am sure it freaked my mother out, who was holding her new baby. 

She never told me that story before. She told me just once, and it was the night I dreamt of my grandfather a few weeks ago. 

I think he was more aware of things than most. He insisted on staying in the hospital (which he hated) because of a gut feeling. That gut feeling proved to be something that prolonged his life.

“Grandpa was admitted to the hospital for treatment of congestive heart failure on Mother’s Day in May 2005 and again in June 2005.  The day Grandpa was to be discharged, he informed the doctor he felt he needed to stay one more night.  This is not characteristic of my grandfather since he loathed being a patient on the cardiac floor. 

He must have known something because that night, for some reason, his heart stopped, and his defibrillator did not work. 

He was revived after 35 minutes of CPR, but he suffered a spinal stroke and was unable to walk after that. For six long weeks, it was a roller coaster of Grandpa doing better and then Grandpa getting worse.  He was in two different hospitals, as well as a brief stay in a nursing home, before he developed a deadly blood infection.  Sadly, on August 1, 2005 – the day before his 67th birthday – he passed away in his home surrounded by Grandma and three of his four children.”

Being from Maryland, blue crabs are a way of life. It's hard to find a place here that doesn't have something with crab meat on the menu or Old Bay Seasoning on the table.

My grandparents used to host crab feasts at their house and invite everyone around to pick crabs. My grandpa would get the crabs live and steam them in the backyard. Everyone who had his crabs swears they were the best they ever had. He had a perfect blend of seasoning which he never wrote down, he “just eyeballed it. ”, and almost 20 years later, no one has been able to get it just right. Although my uncle has come pretty close before. We were always one crab short at the feasts, though. Grandpa would pick one lucky crab and let it loose on the grass for the grandkids to play with. We would run around being chased by one of the crabs for hours.

Those are still some of the cousins’ favorite memories. 

My personal favorite story about my grandfather involves him and my grandmother.
If soulmates are real, my grandparents were a genuine pair. I believe I heard their love story for the first time after my grandpa passed. I know for certain that the first time I heard it from my grandmother was only a couple of years ago.

I used to work close to where my grandmother lived and on my lunch breaks, I would pick her up sometimes and take her out to eat. She loves Olive Garden, and the people there recognize her. She gets all dressed up and makes a big deal out of it; it's pretty precious. 

 
As we were talking at the table, my grandfather came up, as he naturally does, and my grandmother shared their story. My grandparents knew each other in high school. They always liked each other and briefly dated. My grandmother still has a picture of them at their prom.

Not long after, my grandfather quit high school to join the Air Force and left town.  Years and years later, after their kids were grown, my grandpa went back to school and graduated with his GED. I think that is one of the best representations of his work ethic and dedication. 

My grandmother got married to a wonderful man (whose name I will omit for privacy reasons), and they moved out of state. They traveled all around the East Coast for his job, so they were never in one place for too long.
10 years later, in April of 1966, my grandmother came back to her hometown to visit her sister and brother-in-law. When they were driving in the car, they stopped at a stop sign, and a work van pulled up next to them. My grandma remembers hearing her sister say, “Oh my gosh, look, it's Pete!”  My grandmother made eye contact with my grandpa, and both cars pulled to the side of the road. They chatted on Main Street for a while and then spent some time together before my grandmother ultimately had to return to her husband.

One of the first things that she did when she made it home was tell her husband she needed a divorce.

He replied, saying, “It's Pete, isn’t it?”

For the 60s and for being a woman, this was practically unheard of. My grandmother cries when she tells this part of the story. She says she never meant to hurt her first husband; she just knew that she couldn't be with him anymore.

I have reminded her many times that without her bravery and honesty with herself and her first husband at that moment, her kids, her grandkids, and her great-grandkids would have never existed.

She set her first husband free, and she followed her heart, no matter how scary it was. 

I admire her so much for that courage. 

My grandmother came home, married my grandfather on September 2nd, 1966, and the rest is quite literally history.

Anyone who knew my grandpa knows the stories about his dimes and has probably experienced him leaving one for them. While he was alive, my grandfather collected dimes, and since he has passed, he has started quite a collection for his relatives.

Relatives and friends find themselves all over the world at pivotal moments in our lives and when we need them the most. They are always in inexplicable places and in displayed in ways that don't make sense. Some of my personal examples include:

• The day I broke up with my high school ex-boyfriend, I came home and took off the shoes I had been wearing all day to find a cold dime inside my shoe. What high schooler do you know who carries change? Why was the dime cold?
• Senior pictures photo shoot in my cheerleading uniform. We walked around this huge park for almost an hour trying to find a place to shoot. When we finally found the spot, I slid into the splits for a picture, and in between my legs was a dime from the year that I was born. I still have that photo from that day, the photographer was shocked.
• On my 21st birthday, returning from dinner, and when I open the door to my bedroom, a dime is sitting in the center of the carpet.
• I found dimes under my windshield wipers on the outside as soon as I got out of the car after my drive to work. How did it get there? How did it survive an hour's drive?
• I walked out of my room and walked back in to find a dime on my pillow.
• On my first date with my husband, I found a dime with the year he was born on it.
• After changing desks in a car dealership, I found a dime on the salesman's desk, the year of the car I was buying. I told the man the story, and he let me take the dime. He said he couldn't remember the last time that he had changed. That dime is still in my car today.

I remember telling my husband about this when we first started dating, and him dismissing them as coincidences.  When my husband was getting ready to leave for a three-month TDY, I was in bed, worried and watching him pack. I rolled over, and there was a dime on his pillow. I turned to him and said, "Look, my grandpa is telling me it's going to be ok!"

He said that it must have fallen out of his pocket when he was packing, and it was a coincidence.

As he was walking down the steps with his bag packed, there was a dime on the back of the couch. He picks it up and looks at the year, and it's the same year that he was born. I immediately started laughing and said, "Told ya, buddy!" and he thought that I was messing with him. I assured him I was not.

 
He said, Again, this is a coincidence.

As he is packing the truck with his bags on the footboard of his truck, he sees not one but THREE dimes all the year he was born in a row on the footboard. I stood there grinning.

He looked at me and said, "Okay, wow, this is absolutely happening and not a coincidence."

I told you my grandpa was a prankster.

Since that day, my husband has been a believer. My grandpa now leaves dimes for my husband all over the world. Whether that be through the army on deployments and drill weekends, TDYs with his full-time job, or just days at home. They have brought him a new sense of comfort and a smile each time he sees them. He sends me pictures every time he finds them.
 

I think it's my grandpa's personal little signs of approval.

It is hard to sum up the life of someone so special in a few short pages. I tried to keep this post to some of my favorite memories. I am sure there are more detailed memories I could share based on stories from my mother, aunts and uncles, or cousins, but to me, that does not feel as genuine.

When you feel called to do something, you do it, no matter what.
And hey, I am not going to ignore my grandfather or his requests, even from the other side.

Yes, sir, grandfather sir!

If you have grandparents who are still alive, hug them, love them, and listen to them. We don't realize how precious their life and time are until we no longer have the luxury of them. 

Love you more, 

Morgan 

Check this out Corner:

Pabst Blue Ribbon - have one in honor of my grandfather, he will be cheers-ing you up in heaven. Bonus points if you do so wearing plaid.  

P.S. - Within minutes of my uploading this post, which was five days late and not planned to be published today, my husband found a dime.

I see you, Grandpa. I see you.

XOXO,

Mo