The Death of a Great Man

My grandfather passed away this week (on my father’s birthday) at the ripe old age of 93 years old. The following is a tribute speech to him that I presented at today’s funeral service.

On behalf of my family, we want to thank everyone for coming here to celebrate the life of this extraordinary man who I was lucky enough to call my grandfather. Us grandkids called him Papa. And for those who don’t know me, my name is Erik, and I’m his oldest grandchild and most likely his favorite one too (wink, wink).

Ever since I can remember, I’ve known my grandfather as a quiet man, a stoic man, a loving man, and an incredibly handsome man. But he was immensely humble and never took himself too seriously — well, except his hair. His hair was a serious matter. His hair had to be combed perfectly every single morning before he’d show his face to anyone. Even his own family.

A couple of weeks ago, when he was extremely frail and barely functional, I helped him to the bathroom. As soon as we flipped the light on, he slowly raised his head and gazed into the mirror with squinted eyes, and cried out, “Oh boy, my hair, just look at it.”

He was a man always put together, never messy or disordered, always sharp looking. He took pride in his appearance. He was a man of tradition, a simple man who belonged to the past, to a long-forgotten era. A man who never asked too much from the world. And I adored him for that.

My grandfather lived to be 93 years old. And what a life he lived.

I remember at times just looking into his ancient eyes and being captivated knowing darn well that these tired, bloodshot eyes had seen firsthand so much of history and profound change over the last century. It was a reminder of just how connected we all are to the past. Whenever I gave my grandfather a hug, it hit me sometimes that I was hugging a man that was hugged by his grandparents who were born from parents of the Civil War era. It was amazing to think about and it really put TIME in perspective for me.

But through it all, through the death of so many loved ones, the death of his long-time wife and his precious daughter, and the death of most of his close friends and siblings, my grandfather never lost his dry sense of humor, or his charm, and he never became jaded in life. He remained kind-hearted and humorous all the way to the end.

A few months before he passed, I remember taking him to one of his regular doctor visits for bloodwork. As the young pretty nurse drew a vile of his blood, he looked up at her with a little smirk on his face and said, “well, dear, did you leave some in there for me?”

“Yes Mr. Bays, I left you a little, you silly old man you,” she replied. And then he would laugh that laugh that we all knew so well.

My grandfather loved people and he always made deep connections all throughout his life. He could go anywhere and have a friend — he was that kind of guy. He had a genuine interest in people and their day-to-day lives. He was one of the most personable people you could ever meet.

And… just let me tell you, he loved his grandchildren and he loved his great grandchildren. So much. Always bearing gifts on our birthdays, always there at our ball games, always rooting us on through life. He really was a special man.

My grandfather, Ralph Bays, was born on St. Patrick’s Day in 1928, on the brink of the Great Depression in a small coal-mining town in West Virginia. His father was a coal miner, and, like himself, a loving and caring man. His mother was a housewife and a highly religious woman who dedicated her life to the needs of the family.

Less than a year after the conclusion of WW2, at 17 years old, my grandfather joined the army where he was stationed in California and worked as a carpenter. After a short stint in the army, he joined the Air Force where he served as a firefighter in the Korean War.

With honorable discharge papers in his hand, he came back home to West Virginia where he met a little red-headed firecracker of a woman who worked in a department store at the time — my grandma. They eventually married and had two daughters, the youngest being my mother.

And speaking of my mother, I just want to acknowledge her and give her the praise that she deserves for giving up so much of her life in the last few years to take Papa in and take care of him. She was so unbelievably strong in the final days, rarely leaving his side and catering to all his needs. All while trying to work full time. I’ll never forget that. Thank you, mother, thank you for everything you do. You’re an amazing human being.

I’m going to miss my grandfather. So much.

I’m going to miss the smell of his cigars wafting in the midafternoon breeze. And the way he slurped his coffee every hour of the day.

I’m going to miss the way he closed his eyes and nodded his head when an old-time country song came on the speaker.

I’m going to miss the way he let out that childlike chuckle every time he watched those rambunctious squirrels chase each other in the backyard.

I’m going to miss all the hugs that he was never too shy to give out and I’m going to miss the sound of his old husky voice when he always said “I love you, boy” every time he saw me.

As we celebrate this great man today and continue his legacy, I just want to leave you with the heartfelt words of the brilliant Albert Einstein: “Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children… For they are us, our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life.”

I love you, Papa, I’m going to MISS YOU.