Another Saint Gone Home

It is with sadness that I say that my grandfather, Earl Fish, passed away this week. When I think back to my earliest memories of him, I think of a time at church. It’s always nice when your memories of someone involve church, but this was a frightening time for me. My grandparents were sitting behind my mother. I remember being lifted over the back of the pew. I must have been between one and two years old. Even with my mother only a few feet away, I suppose I thought I’d never see her again.

Despite the rough start, I have so many good memories. I remember helping him on various projects. He always wanted to pay me, and it was always more than I thought I deserved for the little work I did. I helped him build a house, hail hay, split wood, and feed the cattle. We went fishing. We built fences.

I don’t remember what the occasion was, but I remember staying with him at the cabin, just him and me, one night. He fixed soup. And I don’t mean he just heated up a can of soup. It was the first time I realized that he could cook.

When I got older, he got anxious to find me a wife. He wasn’t successful, but he tried. One time he got anxious for me to meet this gal who worked at the grocery store. One Sunday afternoon, when we were over at their house, he wanted me to ride over to the grocery store with him. I’m not sure why I went, but I did. In his haste to get me over there, he left his billfold at home. I met the girl, but he had to borrow money from me to pay for whatever it was he was picking up, and then I had to drive back to his house because he didn’t have his driver’s license with him.

We didn’t always see things quite the same way, but I think he was proud of me. I know that I’m glad of the fond memories we made together while he was here.

But I’m happy to say with confidence that the best is yet to come. I do not doubt the condition of his soul and the day will come when we will meet once more in the air.

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