Remembering Grandpa

Louis Price, 1947

December 3 is a holiday to me: it was, and still is, my Grandpa's birthday.  He would be 101 today.  He's been gone for thirteen years now.  And I still miss him every day.

When I take stock of all the goodness in my life, having wonderful grandparents is always tops on the list.  I was so lucky to have four awesome grandparents.  But my Grandpa Price and I were close.  He was my favorite.  When I was little, I called him "Pa" and "Favorite."  I remembering wishing so much that I could live with him.  Until I was older than I care to admit (okay, about eleven) I threw world-class fits every time we left their house, tearfully begging my mom to just take me back to their house. 

It's hard to write about him, because words are inadequate.  I simply can't do him justice.  He was kind, loving, generous, hard-working, smart, and so much more.  One of my favorite stories about him isn't even a memory of my own, but a story my grandma told me about him once.  It's short and sweet:  when my mother was a little girl, she went into town with her mother and lost one of her new red mittens.  She was quite sad about this.  So the next day, my grandpa went into town, located the lost mitten, and chiseled it out of the puddle where my mom had dropped it, and brought it home to her.  A man who often worked from four a.m. until ten at night--he was a farmer--took the time out of his day to do that for his little girl.  Because he knew it was important to her. 

There will never be anyone quite like him.  And while I wish more than anything he was still here, I know how lucky I am to have had him for my grandpa. 

This is me with my grandparents, in 1975, somewhere in Nebraska, en route from Colorado to Iowa.  I can't remember this, of course, but I know I was happy at this moment. 

Love you, Grandpa.