The well-lighted room was filled with beautiful upholstery, flowers, and well-wishers dressed in their Sunday best. Every seat was occupied by family and friends. A pastor hovered over the proceedings, attired in his ceremonial, religious garb. As I stood in front, with my wife by my side, I prepared for one of the most difficult tasks of my life. All eyes of the gathering were on me. My knees shook, my hands trembled. I fumbled with my tie and my hand-written, prepared speech.

Grandpa was dead. Emery Elwin Hetrick was eighty nine.

The night before, at the parlor, two of my uncles approached me and asked if I'd like to say a few words. Though I knew that I'd be extremely nervous, I felt honored by their request. There are certain responsibilities in life that cannot be ignored. My father had taught me this valuable lesson. He, of course, learned it from his father, the man that now reposed at the head of the room.

My grandfather's story is not unique. He was, in many respects, like millions of proud, hard-working Americans. He served his country for thirty-one years in the United States Army. He was one of the last of the old horse soldiers. After retirement, he worked into his mid-seventies, always with enthusiasm, always with a sense of worth. Whatever his accomplishments though, he was proudest of his family. If the measure of a man is the number he leaves behind, Grandpa was quite successful. With his wife of nearly sixty four years, he fathered five children; Charles, Ronald, Joseph, John, and Yvonne. Grandpa's progeny numbered twenty grandchildren and twenty great-grandchildren...and counting. My own daughter Alicia was the last great-grandchild he saw before he passed on.

As Grandpa grew older, he became increasingly aware of his longevity. Much of that longevity could be heard in his stories. Grandpa was a man of loyalty. His were simple pleasures but he was a storyteller extraordinaire. Quite often, at just the right moments, he'd speak about his days in the service or comical events he'd been part of over the years. Photographs of his children and grandchildren scattered about his house were testament to his long, fruitful life. It was a delight to see him relish at home movies of his own children made in the 1940's. The setting for those crude, 16 millimeter movies? A water hole in Western Pennsylvania. He kept meticulous genealogical records of family members. He'd joke that he often felt so bad that he'd begin his morning by checking the obituaries. If he was not among those listed, it would be a good day, he'd say. Grandpa loved to tell the story of a pesky, barking dog who kept him awake at night with untimely howling. After unsuccessful attempts to have the dog's owner and local magistrate listen to his disturbing the peace complaints, he decided on the most logical course of action. Grandpa simply made up his mind to outlive the dog. And, he did. After telling this particular dog story, Grandpa would wiggle his big ears, as if to laugh. He'd stay silent, and then wait for the listener to laugh, which they always did. Though he lost his robust health, he never lost his sense of humor.

And now, here I was, with my deceased Grandfather in a casket behind me. As I stood at the podium of the Deeley Funeral Home in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania on August 28, 1993, I surveyed the crowd. My grandmother sat right in front of me. Next to her were her children and their children and their children. Just a few moments earlier, Pastor Rouse had read the 23rd Psalm and explained that the man in that casket was not Emery E. Hetrick. In fact, Mr. Hetrick was alive in the hearts and minds of those in attendance. Fitting words, indeed.

As tears welled up in my eyes, I began my eulogy. My speech opened by offering a greeting to my grandmother. My words were modest and simple. I talked of my special earthly time with my grandfather from my childhood to my adult years. I mentioned his front yard, his tool shed and garage, playing with blocks, and watching for squirrels and birds on his porch. There were those car rides to drive the pastor to church, ice cream cones in Brookville, and Grandma's delicious spaghetti and meatballs. Who could forget those parakeets that chirped on and on in a cage in the living room? I touched on Grandpa and Grandma's familiar house on 22 Lewis Avenue. All in all, my speech was a capsule of one grandson's relationship with his grandfather. To conclude, I re-told his favorite story, the famous tale about the barking dog. "Thank you, Grandpa," were my final words. As I departed the podium for my seat, the room was filled with a palpable sadness. Everyone was crying, hugging, and remembering. My uncles, who had asked me to share my thoughts, extended their handshakes and congratulated me on a job well done.