November 25, 1939-January 16, 2011

Today, we held my grandfather's memorial service. It was a lovely way of remembering him and as part of the service, I offered the following:

When I think of my grandfather, I think of Pops because that’s what I called him. I think of eating cartons of Cookies and Crème ice cream just between the two of us.

I think about how honest he was and how he once made my uncle Brandon drive all the way across town to give money back to someone who had given him incorrect change.

I think about the fact that he was one of the most loving people I have ever known and how he was one of the only constant figures throughout my life. When I was two, he brought my sister, Ashleigh, and I into his house. It wasn’t like he had a lot of room. He had two sons, Brandon and Keith, at home. He’d already been a father to so many, but he was ready to be a grandfather to me.

I think about how stubborn he was and how stubborn I’ve always been. When I lived with him, I was obsessed with the neighbor’s lawn figurine. It was a squirrel and I stole it on a regular basis. Every time It mysteriously made its way to our house, my grandfather made sure it was returned to its rightful owner. And every time it made its way back to its rightful owner, I made sure it found its way back to me. Our game continued while I lived with them. Later when they moved into the house on Berkeley, he made sure their backyard had a little squirrel so that I would never have to return to my days of thievery.

But, above all I think of his change jar. Maybe it seems trite or self-serving, but a glass jar half-filled with coins is my symbol of Pops. Ever since I was a tiny child, Pops would gather his change for me. As he drove across California and the Western United States, he would save his pockets full of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. I imagine his pants hung heavy with the coins jingling. Lugging those little bits of currency and love back home, he would return to the woman he loved most in the world. In the last decade, his return was welcomed by two yapping dogs alongside my grandmother. As he dumped the metal coinage into the jar, he not only saved up money, but also hope.

Until my sister moved to Fresno, we would split the coins from the jar, but once I was the prodigal granddaughter returning from afar, the coins became all mine. When I was fifteen and sixteen, the money was a welcome boost to my spending money for my trips to California. As I’ve aged, the rolling of coins and the clang of the coin counter became vastly more important than the amount of change collected. The time spent in my grandparents’ bedroom—a place that had always held the mystical charm of adulthood—meant so much more than a couple dollars in my pocket.

I know now that every coin was a hope and prayer for me. It was a dream saved that I might one day cash in. Every time he made it safely home, he was storing up safe returns for me. As I traveled around the country and the world, he was bringing little pieces of his travels back for me. No matter how alone or afraid I have felt, I have always known that he was here, saving up good things for me.

The fact that he always saved those coins is a testament to the fact that he believed in me. He believed in all of us. Because we’re a family. We may not all share DNA, or common goals, or communal memories. But we share him. We share Pops and the love he had for all of us. We were so lucky to have him in our lives as long as we did, but it’s our turn now. It’s our turn to collect the coins of our lives, whatever form they may take. It’s our turn to save up hopes and dreams for ourselves and each other because that’s what a family does and Pops would have wanted it that way.