Five years ago, around the time I'm writing this, my grandpa died after a long battle with cancer. He died painfully, he died slowly, he died without the dignity he had in the rest of his life.

But that's not how I remember him. I don't remember him as the rail thin skeleton of a man that had been eaten away by more things than a tumor.

I remember him as short, with bright blue eyes and silver hair, glasses that were thin but the lenses were large. I remember the reddish shade of sunglasses he wore, and how he shook all over when he laughed. I remember when he got mad his whole face turned bright red and he'd pound his fist on the table. I remember he made everyone nervous with his temper.

I remember the way he used to hug me. Big and strong, so tight all the air was pushed out of my lungs. I remember how he went fishing with me, and how I'm sure he set it up to make it look like I always caught the bigger fish. I remember watching him scale them, glittering silver scales sticking on his hands. How I'd squeal as he cleaned them.

I remember one of the last times we went fishing. We'd had the fish hooked and in the water, not ready to clean them yet, and the line suddenly pulled into the water, I remember him and daddy pulling a huge snapping turtle on shore. Strangely I don't remember them killing it, or gutting it, but I remember how good it was when mom fried it that night. Funny, since now I can't imagine eating a turtle lol

I remember when I got older how uncomfortable I made him. He didn't know how to handle older children, and I understood. I always remember understanding him. That his temper never really bothered me until it upset mom. That grandpa was just that way, but he loved us all.

I remember how proud he was of my mother, even though he could never say it. He never knew how to tell her he loved her, and how proud he was of her artwork. I remember the way his eyes would shine when she showed him some new piece of art. But he couldn't say much about it, just sort of nodded, maybe make a comment that she could do something better with her time. But I remember how his eyes looked. He was proud.

I remember my grandpa showing me and mom and dad slides that he had taken. I remember that his house was filled with junk he bought at auctions. Although, not all of it was junk. Some things were stunningly beautiful. I remember all the glass in his house. The plates, the oil lamps, the sugar bowls, everything. I remember the smell of roses around his home in Texas. He grew yellow roses and always cut some for me when they were in bloom.

I remember what a Christian he was, even when he sinned so often in anger, how much faith he had in God, and how he would speak about his faith with intensity. I remember how much he loved God, and how much he wanted his children and grandchildren to love Him too.

I remember my grandpa as a man that wasn't sure on how to be affectionate, maybe was even a little afraid of it, but was utterly passionate. How when he believed in something, he believe in it with all with soul. That he'd fight for whatever he believed in. Well, he fought most things anyway, just ask anyone that knew him lol

I remember the pictures of my grandpa, in uniform. I wish I had some of him, but I don't. I remember mom telling me about his many many years in service for the U.S. Army. I remember how proud he was of his country, never ending devotion. And when he thought a leader was doing wrong, he was first to say it.

My grandpa was a confusing man most of the time. Saying one thing but meaning another, being cold when he meant to be warm, and having a fierce temper. My grandpa was an amazing man. And I wish I had known him better. I wish I had gotten his stories from his mouth, even though I have them on paper. He wrote down his life, all of it. But I'd like to have heard it in his voice.

I see my grandpa in each of his children. In my mother, who to her distress, looks so much like him. In her temper, in her passion. I see it in my uncle, who's quick to boil over, who has his silver hair, his height, his nose, his eyes. My aunt who has a knack for rewriting history in her mind, and a way of never forgetting or forgiving. They all got his temper, the thing they all wanted to stay furthest from.

I'd like to think that I got something from my grandpa. But the truth is I'm not much like him. And then I realize, how much I DID get from him. I have pride in my country, even if I'm not always proud of my leaders. I have passion, and yes, I have his temper, but mine takes a lot to explode.

I realize that even in the ways I'm not like him, I got something from him. I learned to forgive, because it's not worth living my life out in anger. I learned to keep my mind open, even when it's screaming no. I learned to always tell people I love them, and show them that, because if I don't, who'll tell them? I learned to be a gentler person than he was, but not to lose any of my passion.

My grandpa was an intense man to say the least. But I loved him so much. And I miss him more.

(I'll be posting a picture of him a little later.)