Papa

"Did I ever tell you how I won World War II?"

"No! I didn't realize you flew the bombers that dropped A-bombs on Japan," my 11-year-old self replied. My grandfather, with 75 years under his belt to that point, looked at me and, with a straight face, told me:

"No, no. That's all wrong. The real reason the Japanese surrendered was because they heard I had finished training and was coming for them."

There you have it, folks. You all owe my Papa for saving the world.

Won WWII single handed, raised a family of seven kids, moved his family cross country to the promised land of California, and overcame cancer at the age of 80. Not too bad for a simple man from Bismarck, North Dakota.

My Papa, who told me several stories like that one over the years, can't tell me anymore. He died on April 26 at the age of 87 following a second go-around with cancer.

I've spent the time since then coming to grips with his passing, as well as supporting my family, attending his memorial service, and writing his obituary for his old hometown newspaper.

It's sobering to write the obituary of a loved one. I think that was the moment it all became very real for me. I endured sleepless nights after I was informed of his poor condition in the days prior to his death, and I cried after I got off the phone with my father that fateful Friday evening, but it wasn't until I walked into that house two days after his passing that it really hit me.

My Papa was gone. So many things of his that reminded me of him were still there, but he was gone. The giant red armchair, his overalls for yard work, the HD TV.

Oh, that HD TV. You know he almost didn't let us buy him that? Some of the family wanted to buy him and Grandma a new TV - something bigger and fancier.

When Papa found out, he griped, "But I like this TV. I need it. The Giants never lose on this TV."

That was his favorite line for years. "The Giants never lose on this TV." Wouldn't you know it, after we replaced his TV the Giants won two World Series - the only two championships he saw his whole life.

"I guess it can stay," was all he said after the first championship in 2010.

Following the memorial service this past Monday, I started realizing what people mean when they say your loved ones never really leave you after they are gone. That they remain with you. Papa definitely remains with me. He remains in all my family. He remains in my favorite medium: stories.

Each of Papa's seven children got up during the service and had at least one story to tell about what he meant to them, or something he said or did that stuck with them. Stories of car rides, root beer, and unstoppable left-handed hook shots. And I realized that I too have stories and memories to share.

I'll let you in on another one of my favorites. It was the day I learned my personal connection to Papa was closer than I originally thought.

I was visiting for the holidays during winter break of my freshman year at college. I was attending Washington State University, simply because I had taken an interest in journalism and heard stellar things about that program at WSU. Out of the blue, Papa asks me, "Have they still got that beautiful clock tower on your campus?"

Turns out, after winning World War II, Papa enrolled at WSU on the G.I. Bill. He only stayed for a single semester before returning to his native North Dakota. I guess because he missed what a real winter felt like (although he evidently got fed up with those winters later because he moved to California the following decade).

He recounted for me how he had to take classes, eat, and sleep in Bryan Hall because the small campus was overflowing with veterans home from the war. He described climbing the clock tower at night when no one was around and looking across the starry night sky and dark Palouse landscape.

"There were a lot of beautiful young girls around there," Papa said. "But none of them compared to your grandmother, of course."

My Papa lives on. He lives on in his wife and in his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. All of whom will have stories to tell about Papa for many years to come. We are his legacy, and one I know he was proud of. And it is a legacy I am overjoyed to be a part of.

Not too bad, Papa. Not too bad.