GPS

We were at a rural Catholic church for Uncle Johnny’s funeral. As was the custom, several of the retired priests who had served the parish were invited back for the service. One of them was thumbing his way through a little prayer book. First he went to the right, then he went to the left…all the while my 90-year-old dad sitting beside me was losing his patience. After drumming his hands on the back of the pew, he blurted out, “He can’t find it, he can’t find it.”

Dad was just about to get up and leave the church when I grabbed him by his belt loop and pulled him back down. At last, the priest stopped and read something. Whatever it was, it was anticlimactic following dad’s pronouncement of the obvious. It would have meant more if the priest had closed the book and ad-libbed a prayer.

Over the years, I’ve lost plenty of things…gloves and hats mostly. I always make sure to have some spare items hanging around just in case. I doubt that anyone cares if I’m wearing a brown pair of gloves this morning, only to lose them at lunch and replace them with a black pair in the evening.

But the one thing that we never want to lose is our way. With GPS, it’s easier to find what we are looking for even in a strange town or country. The GPS on my phone works just as well in Brazil as it does in Minnesota. In both places, I can see lakes on my phone that I don’t even see from my car.

But how about when it comes to our career or our family life…a GPS won’t help us there. Or will it? Normally GPS stands for Global Positioning System…but what if it also stood for Glittering Precious Sapphires?

Let me explain. In the 1860s when the southerners and the northerners were engaged in a great Civil War, prospectors were finding gold in the Rocky Mountains of present day Montana. First came the discovery of gold near Bannack, then came gold around Virginia City. The third major find was near present day Helena, the Montana state capitol. The prospectors called it Last Chance Gulch…having already missed out on the two earlier bonanzas. Of course, not all the prospectors got rich at Last Chance Gulch. Some arrived too late, and so they began their journey back to civilization.

However, that didn’t mean they couldn’t continue to look for gold as they retreated out of the Rockies. That’s what happened to a group who traveled east near present-day Lewistown. They panned for gold in the creeks but didn’t find any flecks or nuggets. What they did find were blue pebbles, but they weren’t looking for blue pebbles. They were looking for gold. Then in the 1890s, a cattle rancher collected some pebbles thinking they might be sapphires and sent them to be assayed. Eventually, they made their way to Tiffany’s in New York City where they were proclaimed to be the most precious gem ever discovered in Montana. This is no small feat considering that Montana is known as the Treasure State and Butte is home to the richest hill on earth.

The mining of the precious Yogo sapphires ensued and jewelers considered anything less than a Yogo sapphire to be inferior.

As we journey through life looking for that one perfect nugget, or – in the case of the priest -- a favorite prayer that’s been recited at previous funerals, maybe we should broaden our vision and scope out other precious gems.

When I graduated from college, my goal in life was to be a sports reporter with my heart set on covering the New York Yankees, still my favorite baseball team. I was a sports reporter in high school. But after college, I found more value in using my talents as a communicator in public relations, first for a telephone cooperative in Glendive, Montana, and later for a regional utility in Bismarck, North Dakota. For the last 16 years, I’ve been promoting North Dakota’s lignite coal industry to a variety of audiences.

Had I stuck to my original dream, I might have been like the prospectors who walked away from a stream full of crystal blue sapphires. Instead, I’ve enjoyed a rich career. My hobby remains the New York Yankees. I’ve seen them play at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx and at Steinbrenner Field in Tampa. But my vocation is to promote home-grown energy in North Dakota. My career in public relations has helped me purchase my house, feed my family, send my boys to college and support the occasional vacation to Brazil and Hawaii.

So don’t overlook the sapphires while searching for the gold. And for goodness sake, don’t fumble through the prayer book looking for something that would mean more if it came from the heart and not someone else’s pen. There are glittering precious sapphires…if we will only choose to look.  

Who wants to be a Brazilianaire?

Last spring, I competed in a speech contest at the district convention in Rapid City. One of the other contestants told about her adventures as she swam in the Amazon in Brazil…with piranhas, mind you.

That caught my attention because my wife Belinda and I have been to Brazil three times in the last six years and never have we even seen the Amazon let alone swim in it. But we have our own adventures. Most of them have dealt with two things we hold most dear – food and money.

So let me tell you about our adventures and they occur in three different places – the megacity of Sao Paulo, the small city of Bebadouro and the beaches along the Atlantic Ocean.

The reason we fly 4000 miles to Sao Paulo is that’s the home town of our daughter-in-law Camila. It’s a city of about 25 million people to 30 million people – second only to Mexico City as the largest city in the western hemisphere. As the late Anthony Bourdain said, “It’s so large it makes LA look like Hooterville.”

Now imagine if you will a Sunday morning street fair in Sao Paulo. There are fruit and fish vendors lined up for miles along a thoroughfare. As we get out of the car and walk toward the crowds, my son – who is married to Camila – feels it necessary to tell me, “And whatever else you do here today, don’t get lost in the crowd.”

Well, imagine my surprise when I’m hanging out with my gang of about 12 people at the street fair only to turn around and find them all gone. They have vanished. All I see is a sea of people and what’s worse is they all look the same. They all have brown skin and black hair. I can’t use my cell phone because it doesn’t work in Brazil.

I don’t know if I should move and start looking for them, or should I stay put until someone notices that I’m gone and comes back to find me.

Alas, I see Camila’s sister – or at least someone who looks like her sister – but, sadly, no. It’s just another of a thousand people at the street fair who looks exactly like my Brazilian relatives. At last, I find my wife. She’s ordering something from one of the vendors. So I walk over with happy elation written all over my face. Then I come upon my son who scolds me for getting lost.

“You are a known flight risk,” he says. “Stay with the group.”

Belinda is ordering homemade candy. And they are making it in front of our eyes. They have a hot iron skillet that they fill with tapioca flour and fry it over a blue propane flame. They flip it and then pour sweetened condensed milk on it, fold it over, take it out of the pan and hand it to Belinda. It’s simple to make and tastes like you are eating a Mounds candy bar.

We love it so much that Belinda buys a small bag of the white tapioca flour. The vendor tells us that once the bag is opened, it needs to be eaten at once or it will spoil…thus the small bag.

Well, this is perfect. We look forward to taking our bag of tapioca flour back to North Dakota and making our own homemade candy, until we get to the airport in Sao Paulo. A bag of tapioca flour looks a lot like a bag of cocaine to airport security personnel. So after having our luggage x-rayed, opened and examined, the tapioca flour passes the smell test and we are allowed to keep it with us.

My second story about food occurs in Bebedouro, a city about the size of Bismarck. Camila’s grandfather and a couple of uncles live here. After Sao Paulo, Bebedouro seems like Mayberry. Everyone is friendly and in the center of town is a park. It is at the park that we come upon hot dog vendors.

Now, we are no stranger to hot dogs. We’ve eaten hot dogs in every major league baseball park and a few minor league parks. We’ve also eaten them in New York City where they are affectionately known as dirty water dogs. So no, it’s best not to invest too much time into the integrity of the sausage. Simply close your eyes and bite down on them.

But the Brazilian hot dog is a different breed altogether. While American dogs are generally dyed red, the Brazilian dogs are orange….no, not just orange, sort of a florescent orange….like the color of the vests worn by hunters in North Dakota.

So here’s a street vendor selling orange hot dogs. But instead of the normal condiments like ketchup and mustard, the Brazilians are used to eating their hot dogs smothered with cooked green peas and mashed potatoes.

Okay, here’s where I draw the line. First, I’m not sure if I could even eat an orange hot dog, but I’m sure that I can’t eat one covered in green peas. So while the rest of the brave people downed a hot dog, I waited for our next stop – the ice cream shop. Only to my dismay, the flavors of the ice cream are also like the hot dogs. Anyone eat ice cream that tastes like sweet corn before? You can in Bebedouro. I stuck with more familiar flavors – chocolate smothered with the ubiquitous sweetened condensed milk.

My third stop on this journey is a beach – this particular beach doesn’t need a name because they are all over the place a hundred miles or so east of Sao Paulo. Some are coves, some are jetties, some are white sand and some are rocky. But they have a few things in common – they are full of people and they have young men who wait on your every need.

It's best to get there early so you can pick out the best spot, which is in front of the food and beverage cabana. Here you want someone who speaks Portuguese to set up a tab for you and your group. If they know you are American, you’ll probably end up paying too much. But if your name is Claudiney or Guilherme, they’ll treat you right.

So at the end of the day after devouring high octane sodas, mixed drinks over the rocks and a host of foods on a stick, it’s time to pay the bill. Generally, our little group averages about eight to 10 of us. The Brazilian dollar is known as real (pronounced HAY-eye). For every American dollar, you can get somewhere between three and four reals. So it’s a good thing to be an American.

Rather than splitting up the bill eight ways, the young men who have kept our drinks fresh and fried our food on a stick to perfection, would just as soon that one person pay the bill in full and leave them a tip. This is where Belinda comes in. She hands them a credit card. Any translation is done by our daughter-in-law who speaks fluent English and Portuguese. In an instant, the bill is paid and our credit card shows that we paid one-fourth of what the bill actually was.

Because of the amazing exchange rate, we are what is known as Brazilianaires…just average run of the mill Americans who can pay a fraction of what someone from Brazil would pay. It’s a great system…for us and our relatives.

But the real cherry on top is that the vendors like the arrangement so much that they are more than happy to give Belinda a free drink…the proverbial one for the road. It’s a concoction of fresh fruit, ice, wine and the ever present sweetened condensed milk.

So while we haven’t swam with piranhas, we have had our share of Brazilian adventures. Hopefully, next year, we can add to the list.

Lessons we learned from Grandpa

The phrase “teachable moment” comes to mind, but can an elderly man with Alzheimer’s really teach his children and grandchildren? That’s the question we’ll explore today.

Willis came to live with us in 2006 upon the death of his wife. He brought with him his clothes, his cat and the start of dementia…something that would slowly progress over the remaining eight years of his life.

Grandpa with his grandsons Scott and Derek in 2011. 

Despite his disease, the World War II veteran could still light up the room and his love for his family knew no bounds. He went by different names. To me he was dad but to our sons, he was Grandpa. 

He taught us that you are never too old to help someone. It was a cold winter’s afternoon and after eating a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup for lunch, he dressed warm and went for his daily two-block walk. Even though he had Alzheimer’s, we never worried about him wandering off. He had made this trek so many times, he could do it without much thought. And our neighbors along the two block walk always kept an eye out for Grandpa.

On this particular day, we were surprised when he brought back an elderly gal with him. She was our neighbor – Maggie. She didn’t have her teeth in and she wasn’t wearing a coat. Maggie also suffered from dementia. So once she got in our house and warmed up, she told us that she had gone outside for a minute and locked herself out of her home. Our hero came to her rescue and brought her to our house. Since we knew Maggie’s daughter, we called her and she came over to unlock the door…only to find that the door wasn’t locked in the first place.

Thus is the life of living with people who suffer from memory loss. But as Maggie bundled up in a coat to leave our house with her daughter, Grandpa made one of his pronouncements that will stand the test of time, “Women have a harder time growing old than men do.”

Seriously, I thought. Both of you have Alzheimer’s. Both of you require children to survive, but dad spoke so eloquently, it just seemed like the words should be carved in stone. But I think what he really meant was, you are never too old to help someone in need, and in this case he did.

A second lesson he taught us – you don’t need to know their names to be proud of your family. As dad approached his 90^th birthday, the only person whose name he could remember was his grandson’s Scott. All the rest of us were something else. I was forever introduced to him as “this is my son.” My wife was the “woman in the kitchen.” This phrase was only necessary when the woman in the kitchen wasn’t in the kitchen about 15 minutes before Grandpa expected to eat….which was 7 a.m., noon and 6 p.m.

He would walk by the kitchen and if it was empty, he would ask whoever was around, “Where’s the woman in the kitchen?” Meals were important to dad, but so was family. He might not know your name, but he knew if you were a relative. If he did, he would say, “you belong to me.”

That was high praise from someone who couldn’t remember what he ate for breakfast, but he could remember that someone passing through town from Idaho to Maine “belonged to me.”

The third thing dad taught us was that an honest answer could also be mistaken as a person with an amazing wit.

If you didn’t know he had Alzheimer’s, and a lot of people didn’t, he could fool you easy enough. He was generally quiet, but he would say just enough to make an impact. For instance, one night we were attending a dinner and dad was introduced to the evening speaker. The guest of honor asked dad, “What did you do before you retired?”

Without a pause, dad said, “It’s been so long ago, I forgot.” The whole room erupted in laughter.  What a clever response, they thought. But if the truth was known, he had answered the question truthfully. The ever-present twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face made the audience believe that he was being clever.

Of course, he had forgotten that he was a coal miner, a rough neck and a pipeliner. He retired from Conoco in 1985…which was before either of our sons were born.

That was our life with dad. He was a pleasure to be around. He was always a gentlemen, he loved his family and he could light up a room with a smile and an answer that would delight us all. And he taught us that you are never too old to help, that family is your best friend and a well-spoken person is always a gem. 

The odd parallels between Belinda and Rosaline

If someone else noticed the weird coincidences between Belinda and her mother Rosaline, they never explained them to me.

But I certainly discovered them when reading Rosaline’s 1957 and 1958 diaries. I didn’t have to read Belinda’s diaries from 1986 and 1987 because I lived them.

Leo and Rosaline's wedding photo from June 1956.

In June 1956, Rosaline married Leo, who lived and worked in Glendive. So after their wedding Rosaline moved from her family’s farm near Mandan to a different state and to a city where she didn’t know anyone except her husband…or did she?

Why of course she did. Three of her dad’s sisters lived in Glendive. There was Aunt Rose Sterhan, Aunt Mary Pfau and, the youngest, Aunt Kathryn Rust.

There was also Leo’s sister Pat (Perpetua) and her husband Ray Hegel.

So in 1958 when Rosaline – who was the oldest child – had Belinda – also an oldest child – there was a built-in support system to ask questions, find a quick babysitter, etc.

Now jump ahead to 1985 when Belinda married me. Only this time Belinda moved from Glendive to Mandan…basically the opposite of her mother.  And in 1988 when Belinda had her oldest child, all of her questions could be answered by her grandmother. In fact, I think Grandma Frohlich took quite a bit of pleasure in being there for Belinda. It sort of made up for having her daughter move away nearly 30 years ago.

Belinda and my wedding photo from October 1985.

And it wasn’t like Belinda didn’t know anyone in Mandan. While Rosaline had three of her dad’s sisters, Belinda had four of her mom’s brothers – Johnny, Philip, Clifford and Herbie. She also had Rosaline’s mom. Grandma became a suitable substitute for Rosaline for Belinda. After all, they had more similarities than differences.

But if that wasn’t enough, there were also several of Leo’s sisters including Belinda’s Godmother, Clara Wetsch. Besides Aunt Clara, there was also Aunt Barbara and Aunt Alice.

Except for Philip, the rest had gotten married and had children, so Belinda also had lots of cousins…as did Rosaline in Glendive back in the 1950s.

So when Rosaline got married and was just starting to create a new life and depended on the friendship and generosity of her relatives, it was an easy story to understand because we had done the same things.

In fact when we moved to Mandan after Christmas in 1985, it was Philip, Clifford and Herbie who came over to help Leo and I unpack the U-haul during the coldest day of the winter.

Over the years, Rosaline came to rely on her aunts – especially Aunt Katy. Rosaline still sees her cousins Linda (Aunt Katy’s daughter) and Jeannette (Aunt Mary’s daughter).

In Mandan, we have had breakfast with Belinda’s uncles on Saturdays for probably 15 years or more. We also are friends with all of her cousins and see them at least once a year – at the Frohlich reunion.

So if you hear someone say that history repeats itself, indeed it does. And it’s much easier to understand how the previous generation survived when you see the same circumstances surround you as well. 

Brothers and sisters

I saw something on Facebook today that sparked my creativity. It was a “test” called sibling wars and it wanted to know who of my siblings was smartest, most stubborn, most creative, etc. So rather than starting a war, I thought I would simply write a blog about my siblings. Each one of us has our own personality, strengths and weaknesses, but I love them all equally and feel so lucky to call them  family.

I’m the baby – at 58 – that means my oldest brother is now 69. His name is Gene. His full name is Willis Eugene and he was named for dad and one of my mom’s relatives. However, he’s always been Gene to me. When I was growing up in Roundup, Gene was always in a band. In high school, it was called the “Dictions.” Many people who were the age of my parents loved to go to dances and so I became known as “Gene’s brother.” My dad was known as “Gene’s dad.” I don’t think any of us minded because we were proud of Gene and his musical talents. I have many fond memories of my oldest brother. He took me fishing when I was little and I liked being included in his activities. I always thought he was very handsome, so I considered it a compliment when people told me that I looked like my oldest brother.

My sister Janet is 10 years older than me. She lived in Rapid City most of her adult life. Since I lived in places like Baker, Glendive and Mandan,  I generally lived closer to her than any of her other siblings. She was always like a second mother to me.  After raising her children she worked as a librarian in the Rapid City school system, which allowed her enough time to correspond with me daily through e-mails. Now that’s she retired, she seems to be too busy…ha ha. But I still appreciate the time we spend writing e-mails back and forth to each other. A couple of years ago, we were lucky enough to take a Hawaiian cruise together. Janet is not the traveler that we are; however, I’m so grateful that she and her husband Ed went with us. We have memories and photos of an unforgettable week in paradise.

My next sibling is my brother Randy. He was probably the most athletic of all my siblings. I remember that he was a pretty good pole-vaulter when he was growing up. Both of my brothers are also very mechanically inclined and I am not. Randy and I have had some memorable experiences together. In the winter of 1980, he moved in with me in my small apartment in Beach, ND, and we worked together at the Golden Valley News. I was a reporter and Randy helped with commercial printing and in the darkroom. He was actually a welder but had hurt himself so was looking for a different job as he was healing. There was no doubt that Randy was good looking and fun loving. The girls in Beach and Wibaux seemed to swarm around him. I knew that things had gone too far when most of the people thought that I was actually older than him. Obviously, he was “younger at heart” than his younger brother who was more studious and career-oriented. However, we have some great memories from our short time of batching together.

Closest in age is my sister Susan. Randy graduated from high school in 1971 and Susan in 1973, so there were a couple of years where Sue simply “ruled the roost.” She was very pretty in high school and married a local school teacher, who was very handsome. Over the years, Susan has been very close to us…all though she has lived the farthest away in miles. When my dad lived with us, we could always count on Susan and her husband Rich to help us out when we needed to be away from home, such as going to Brazil for Derek and Camila’s second wedding. Also they helped us out with dad when Derek and Camila had their first wedding.  Susan, like Janet, is another that likes to email regularly so we know what’s going on with each other…no matter how mundane.

So it’s hard to say who’s the cutest, who’s the smartest, who’s the most stubborn, who has the best hair…we all brought our strengths and weaknesses to the family party. So my final thought is this…our parents were equally proud of each of us. In many ways, we reflected their values of hard work and success, which is the legacy that they left each of us. As  we’ve aged, we’ve probably all mellowed and slowed down some, but in our hey-day, we were forces to be reckoned with. 

I want to see Jesus face-to-face…just not right now

The evening of September 12 was a “come-to-Jesus” moment for me. I was in my front yard mowing my lawn. Unknown to me, my heart was starting to slow down. The beats were getting fainter and farther apart, but, at the time, I only knew that I felt out of breath.

As I turned a corner, I saw a white flash of light in my eyes. In a snap, I knew I had been shocked. My life had been saved.

In January of 2014, I had a pacemaker/defibulator placed into my chest under the skin by my left shoulder. It had never gone off, so I wasn’t sure what to do. I walked into the house and hollered for my wife. I then went and grabbed the papers out of my dresser drawer regarding the device. They said that if your heart goes out of rhythm and your device goes off, well, it’s supposed to. So don’t be worried. Everything worked out right.

In five minutes, I felt just fine. My heart was back in sinus rhythm and I finished mowing the front yard. Then I put the mower away without even starting the backyard.

The next day at work, I got a call from the device clinic at our local hospital. They wanted me to schedule an appointment with my cardiologist – for that day! Normally, it takes up to six months to see a cardiologist and often the doctor doesn’t show up, but rather one of the physician assistants.

What transpired was a series of weekly visits with my cardiologist. At one, I had a test that showed that my heart was still functioning properly. There wasn’t any damage to the heart and my “push” was still in the normal range.

At another, I had an angiogram from my right wrist to my heart to ensure there wasn’t any blockage.

Here I was – a 57-year-old fat man with type II diabetes and a bad heart. Every morning and night I was taking a handful of pills to keep me on the straight and narrow…or so I thought until September 12.

I didn’t see this scenario playing out well. The doctors told me that high blood pressure, heart disease and diabetes are a recipe for failure. Pills don’t fix, they just mask the symptoms.

I have a wife, two married sons, and a new grandson, a home, two cars, a garage – I’m living the American dream. I don’t have a job, I have a career. I like what I do and I’m paid well to do it. I have been frugal and saved for a nice retirement. We like to travel and hope to do more in our golden years. But the dream just about ended.

My heart problems started about 10 years ago when I was diagnosed with Atrial Fibrillation, which causes my heart to go out of rhythm. The problem was escalated in 2011 when I contacted a virus that attacked my heart. At that time, I lost 60 pounds. But my weight loss was tied to my illness. Because I didn’t feel well, I didn’t eat. Once I started feeling better, my weight started to climb. While I tried to stay active, I found that I could eat more and faster than the exercise could take off. So by last fall, I found myself obese…and nearly dead.

I would like to say that my sons encouraged me to lose weight, but basically they both scolded me and told me that it was time to take bold action. Procrastination would no long work.

I had an appointment with my general practitioner in October and we discussed my health, my weight, my future, etc. He referred me to a weight-loss program that is run by Sanford Health, the same company as the doctor’s clinic and the local hospital.

My wife and I started on October 28. Within a month, we had both lost 20 to 25 pounds. Through this journey, we have learned to be creative when it comes to food choices. We have lived through Thanksgiving and Christmas, one Lions convention and one retirement party and have still continued to lose weight by making smart food choices.

Now, three months later, we are each 40 to 50 pounds lighter than we were in October.

So not only have I lost weight, but my blood sugar readings have shown significant improvement, and I’ve been able to reduce my intake of pills. I still take plenty, but it’s nice to take fewer pills.

I’m not at the end of my journey. In fact, in many ways, I’m just starting my journey to a healthier lifestyle.

I would like to thank the doctors, dieticians and others in the medical field for helping me, but more importantly, I want to thank my family for all their support. They have made this journey fun. 

Some thoughts on being a grandpa

We were at Disneyworld when we heard that we were grandparents. Our first grandchild was born March 10, 2016. Suddenly, the charm of Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and Magic Kingdom no longer had their grip on me. All I wanted to do was board an airplane and fly back to North Dakota and see Henry.

That’s how I’ll remember becoming a grandpa. Something so fantastic happens that you want to be as close as you can.

In the ensuing seven to eight months we’ve seen this little baby grow. He’s gone from drinking milk to eating food. He’s learned to crawl and pull himself up. He has also flown to Brazil and back…when he was three months old! I don’t think I boarded an airplane until I was in my mid-20s.

When people ask me how many times I played golf this summer, I tell them, “barely at all. Most Saturdays were spent driving to Minot to see Henry.” And every time we see Henry, he is just that much nicer. In fact, leaving him to drive back home is getting tougher and tougher. My consolation, however, is that I live 100 miles away, so I generally know when I will see him again.

His other set of grandparents live in Brazil. His maternal grandma will see Henry when she comes back to the United States for a six-month visit in January 2017. Henry’s maternal grandfather won’t see him until July 2017.

We are lucky to live so close.

It’s different being a grandparent. I won’t say its better, but it’s different. There’s definitely less stress and yet a grandfather wants the grandchild to know that everything will be all right. Even though we aren’t involved in every decision, nor are we around every day, we nevertheless keep a watchful eye on everything. And when it looks like everything is under control and the baby is healthy and happy, then being a grandparent is a blessing. It means that our children grew up and now have the responsibility of raising their children to be productive partners in society. The torch has been passed.

I didn’t have grandpas living when I was child. My dad’s father died 10 years before I was born and my mom’s dad died the year I was born.

I had grandmas and they were wonderful. I miss them always.

My own parents were superb grandparents to my children and the rest of their grandchildren. They lived 400 miles away, but they still kept track of how everything was going. And mom often had a few coaching tips that today seem invaluable to me. Mostly, she told me to “cool it.” Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. Children are going to go through stages. Sometimes they are fighting to become more independent, and that’s okay, because your child will want to stand alone someday, just as you did.

That’s good advice, but it’s hard to swallow when your child is a toddler and wants to walk into things with square corners and sharp edges.

And we loved to spend time with my folks and my wife’s folks when the kids were little. I’m sure that our children knew that if they were with their grandparents, the day or the occasion was extra special.

So as I look ahead to being a grandfather for the rest of my life, my prayer is this, “that the little ones know how much I love them and that a grandparent’s love is forever.”