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I'm one of the few grandchildren who remember George Keyzer as he used to be. I am Grandpa's first male grandchild. Apparently that earned me a special place. I remember going everywhere with Grandpa. I remember going to the Co-Op for supplies, and I'd play with the toy Internationals that looked just like Grandpa's big red tractor. I remember being carried around his new house in Delavan as it was being built, dusty plywood for floors, but there were already sugar cubes in the cupboard. I remember the pink peppermints that he used to pass me in church. I remember playing checkers with him, he would beat me over and over again, and give me hints on how to play, but would never throw the game. I remember him lifting the huge hay bales like they were nothing. I remember long hours in the big red combine, curled up in the corner of the cab as Grandpa harvested the corn. I remember sitting in his dirty pick-up truck and Grandpa opening the red pistachios for me and coming back to the house to his big Collie. I respect that man more than I can express. I have a vague recollection of who he actually was. My version of him is colored by the stories that people would tell about him. I remember him as a huge man who didn't bother with delicate language on the farm, but you'd never hear him tell a dirty joke. Instead he had a bone-dry sense of humor. When my father was dating my mother he met George out on the farm. He was making steers. He called my father over and told him that he was next. I saw him as larger than life, the real version of John Wayne. Grandpa was probably the biggest influence I have had in my life. Just being around the man he was could have been enough, but coupling that with how he raised my mother, and then her raising me, I couldn't have asked for a better teacher. I'm pleased with who I've become, I'm pleased with the abilities that I possess and the confidence that allows me to do whatever I set my mind to. I owe that to Grandpa. I was only in second grade at the time of his stroke, but my times with Grandpa are some of the strongest memories that I have. I distinctly remember my mother coming into DCS with tears in her eyes. She told me that Grandpa was in the hospital, it was a stroke. I didn't even know what that meant, but I knew it was bad. I knew Grandpa was hurt. The foundations of my small world shook, knowing that this giant of a man could be hurt. I remember seeing him in the hospital and how he tried to play a game of checkers with me. I remember how easily I won. I remember when they auctioned off the farm equipment, including the pony cart that Grandpa had said was going to be mine. That's when I realized that Grandpa wasn't coming back, not the way he was. That's when I cried for Grandpa. Now Grandpa has gone on to some place where he can be himself again. He's gone on to somewhere where he isn't held back by a body that constantly betrays him, or a mind that frustrates him. I loved and respected Grandpa, but I knew how much it frustrated him to be taken care of. I'm happy he's come to a place where he doesn't have to feel betrayed, guilty, or frustrated anymore. I don't need to cry for him now. I don't feel that I need to mourn him. I only hope that I can honor him by trying to live up to his example. |