Grampy's Memorial.

He was tall and strong, methodical and infinitely patient. His eyes were always kind when gently instructing me and his words carried weight and sincerity as he spoke to me, and I listened carefully to learn what my grampy knew.  I wanted to create what he was creating.

I wasn’t in the way. I wasn’t too small or burdensome.  He’d cut carefully with precision, always thoughtful in his craftsmanship; caring that he’d create something beautiful, that it would serve a purpose.

And I had a small red hammer and a scrap wood pile.  I’d bang away my small hammer at my small creations too. Windmills! I made lots of windmills.  He was proud of me; he stopped often to help me or explain what he was doing when I’d have yet another question.  He loved me. I was his granddaughter.  And we would run inside the house to show Grammy all my small little masterpieces.

This world is all that I know, and yet I know it’s gone terribly wrong somewhere in my grandfather’s life span.  We all hear the rhetoric, the noise and excuses we all make when justifying ourselves and the choices we make without thoughtfulness.  It’s just said now, “Oh, they’ll be alright, they’ll be just fine. They can adapt, they can adjust.  They’re young and resilient. They’ll barely remember because they are just children along for the ride.” Our world is drench in acts of SELF. The love of self, the feelings of self- The cries of self rights and the me-ness of “my opportunity” “my desire” “living this life for me”.

In this, something so vital is being destroyed. Something so monumentally beautiful: The selfless man.  The man of strength, fortitude, commitment and sacrifice.  A good man, understanding his purpose.

I know what it is to be small and at times, in the way.  I know what it is to be burdensome me.   The world is addicted to fast, modern and contemporary; a fad, a style, an era or convenience and being served.   

But my grandfather never bent and never swayed to the nonsense such as this world and its plans for self.  This world made his ways old fashion and not up to par with new age reasoning. And I thank my God for this, that he put such a man in such an important place in my young life.  His simplicity and values understanding the purpose of a good man.

Because of my grandfather, I know that purpose: A man who wakes up with a purpose to provide.  A man who wakes up not thinking, “What can I do today?” but wakes saying, “What can I do for them today?”  Because of him, I know a good man provides more then wages, he provides time, his words, his morality and skills.  He provides all that he has of himself because what is vital to him is that those that depend on him know he is there and they are loved.

My grampy built himself into a rock and a place to call Home.

He loved a small little, talkative girl and called her Jenny.

He took her into his workshop and let her bang away.

He took time to talk with her.

He took her up north, camping and fishing, swimming and daydreaming.

He took time to show her nature and admire its solitude.

He took the time to open the door to his home a thousand times, to show her stability and commitment.

And he paid the bills and provided a roof, silently and graciously.

He showed her a good man, which would always answer his phone.

He sat in my vehicles to inspect the purchase.

He spoke to me about jobs and former boyfriends.

And choices in my life.

He loved my husband and hugged my children, making him Great-Grampy.

Maybe this world made him old fashion, a relic in his simple philosophies of being the Good Man.

But to me, he is Grampy and the world and its modern-ness and haste to declare SELF, lost a not just a good man, but one of the best, who declared not in his words but in his actions:

“I am selfless and humble.  I am strong and consistent.  I am here always, with nothing but all I can offer you.  I am here to simply be head of a family and say I love you with all that I’ll do for you.”

My grandfather created beauty in the art that he produced and the family he devoted himself to.  When I say that John Edward Connick was my grandfather, I don’t believe I could say it without tears and utter pride in my heart.