Grandad Hagan

My grandfather passed away this last weekend. This was the culmination of a long down-hill trip over the last few years. It was hard to see him at our last Christmas party. He was so withdrawn and disconnected – a shell of the man I knew growing up.
But in my memories he’ll always be the Grandad Hagan from years ago. Living in the house on the hill over the interstate. Playing with the weimaraners. Cooking incredible filet mignon. Playing old LPs on the stereo. I remember sitting in his house and looking at the huge grandfather clock that had a face that told the phases of the moon, not just the time of day. My brothers and I used to play with plastic soldiers in the hills around the end of his driveway. We would dig through the cabinets in his living room and pull out board games and puzzles and science novelties to our hearts content.
Grandma Hagan passed away a long time ago. Going to her funeral is the earliest memory I have of really meeting death in person. I don’t think it gets any easier to say good bye to family or friends. When I help carry Grandad out of church for the last time on Wednesday, it will be a sad goodbye. But he will live on in our memories, which I think is all any of us can hope for.

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