A Eulogy for Grandpa
I gave this eulogy at my Grandad's funeral. My aunt Kim wrote a nice obituary for him here.
All my memories of Grandpa are tinged with bits and hues of mystery. James Clifford Peterson, born on March 17th, 1930, was always a fairly private person, and never spoke about himself much--except on occasion. But when I say my memories of him have a bit of mystery to them, I mean more than that. Probably the earliest memory I have, in fact, is vague and shapeless scene in my mind of a set of stairs at Grandma and Grandpa's house. I don't know why, but the idea got into me that they just had to be climbed. To anyone else, it was just the second floor at the top. But apparently to someone who could hardly crawl it went somewhere that seemed infinitely more alluring. I'm told I made the attempt over and over again, thwarted every time by some giant figure swooping in to pull me down.
I don't know if I actually remember any of this, or if the picture has come to grow in my mind from being told to me by Grandpa, Grandma, and my parents. At any rate, the mysterious memory is there now, and for me its almost the first moment of the beginning of time.
Slightly later, the mystery lay in Grandpa's attic storage, this time in a different house that he and Grandma Beverly Peterson lived in for over thirty-three years. Grandpa's attic wasn't mysterious because it was scary, or ominous like some attics. Just the opposite: it was mysterious because it held so many wonderful toys and gifts. I knew, or at least I strongly suspected, that there in that place tucked away were our Christmas presents, just waiting. I would always eye the pull down cord dangling in the garage, wondering.
James 1:17 says of course that "every good and perfect gift comes from above." I'm misusing that verse a bit here, but to be fair I don't know if every gift Grandpa gave us from the attic was perfect either. I think all of us have a lifetime supply of ballpoint pens at this point, and at least a few catalogue ordered watches that are right on the money twice a day. But all the gifts were good.
And many of those gifts also came from another place of mystery to me. Grandpa's den, just below that treasure trove in the ceiling. It was like some darkly lit tinkerer's workshop that smelled of wood shavings and smoke and paint, and whose walls were lined with every conceivable type of tool, and screw, and washer, and what I can probably only safely call "doodads" or "thing-a-majigs" because I'm fairly certain not even Grandpa knew what they did. But he kept them just in case. He was, after all, an Eagle Scout. And from the workshop came beautiful creations like the miniature houses he loved to build.
Then there were the miniature American Flyer "S" gauge trains he collected, absolutely lining the attic walls. A few stragglers made it down to the den because, wouldn't you know it, one of the doodads on the wall would be able to fix a broken part. And when that happened, Grandpa would smile a bit mischievously at these unlikely fixes and say "I knew that would come in handy."
Yet more trains would run through the backyard among a community of minuscule houses, barns, stores, and even their very own train station. Others ran their routes at the train and hobby store he purchased and named "The Whistle Stop." Yet another mysterious place. Every time we grandkids would visit, we could take a tour through what I remember were the vast little landscapes for the little trains, walking through the small hills and tiny trees and tunnels. I liked to think that a few of the tunnels at the Whistle Stop, somehow, connected all the way back to the edges of the attic that remained dark even when the light was switched on. And that through some magic they made their journeys continuously to and fro.
And as we grew up, we got to know Grandpa a bit more. You would come to find that before he spent time lovingly tending to his garden, or doting gifts on the grandkids, that--mystery of mysteries--he flew fighter jets over Korea. And then, for a short time, in Valdosta, Georgia, he trained others to do the same. He probably could have built a fighter plane out of all those infinite doodads peppering the drawers and nooks of his den (and, for all any of us knew, most of those strange bits came from a disassembled fighter plane in the first place). But it was hard to escape the sneaking suspicion that however exciting jets were, he much preferred the quiet of the roses and his trains.
In the last years, there were fewer trains. And though he had determination, he moved slower through the roses. Any health that he did have was a miracle worked by the Peterson family's Patron Saint Grandma, Beverly, his wife of sixty-five years, along with the help of his kids and family. Due to health complications in 2012, he ended up needing a leg amputated. Not even Grandpa's workshop had some mysterious fix to cobble together for that, but he made it alright for a while on a prosthetic designed just for him. On February 25th, 2017, he had a bad fall, and was in intense pain from it for several weeks. On March 17th, at around 9:00am, he wasn't in pain anymore, and passed away in his home. He was 86 years old.
We are here to remember him and witness one last mystery, which Paul speaks of in 1 Corinthians 15:50-57. "Listen," he says, "and I will tell you a mystery":
In the meantime, if there wasn't a train set in heaven before, there sure is one now.
I don't know if I actually remember any of this, or if the picture has come to grow in my mind from being told to me by Grandpa, Grandma, and my parents. At any rate, the mysterious memory is there now, and for me its almost the first moment of the beginning of time.
James 1:17 says of course that "every good and perfect gift comes from above." I'm misusing that verse a bit here, but to be fair I don't know if every gift Grandpa gave us from the attic was perfect either. I think all of us have a lifetime supply of ballpoint pens at this point, and at least a few catalogue ordered watches that are right on the money twice a day. But all the gifts were good.
And many of those gifts also came from another place of mystery to me. Grandpa's den, just below that treasure trove in the ceiling. It was like some darkly lit tinkerer's workshop that smelled of wood shavings and smoke and paint, and whose walls were lined with every conceivable type of tool, and screw, and washer, and what I can probably only safely call "doodads" or "thing-a-majigs" because I'm fairly certain not even Grandpa knew what they did. But he kept them just in case. He was, after all, an Eagle Scout. And from the workshop came beautiful creations like the miniature houses he loved to build.
Then there were the miniature American Flyer "S" gauge trains he collected, absolutely lining the attic walls. A few stragglers made it down to the den because, wouldn't you know it, one of the doodads on the wall would be able to fix a broken part. And when that happened, Grandpa would smile a bit mischievously at these unlikely fixes and say "I knew that would come in handy."
And as we grew up, we got to know Grandpa a bit more. You would come to find that before he spent time lovingly tending to his garden, or doting gifts on the grandkids, that--mystery of mysteries--he flew fighter jets over Korea. And then, for a short time, in Valdosta, Georgia, he trained others to do the same. He probably could have built a fighter plane out of all those infinite doodads peppering the drawers and nooks of his den (and, for all any of us knew, most of those strange bits came from a disassembled fighter plane in the first place). But it was hard to escape the sneaking suspicion that however exciting jets were, he much preferred the quiet of the roses and his trains.
In the last years, there were fewer trains. And though he had determination, he moved slower through the roses. Any health that he did have was a miracle worked by the Peterson family's Patron Saint Grandma, Beverly, his wife of sixty-five years, along with the help of his kids and family. Due to health complications in 2012, he ended up needing a leg amputated. Not even Grandpa's workshop had some mysterious fix to cobble together for that, but he made it alright for a while on a prosthetic designed just for him. On February 25th, 2017, he had a bad fall, and was in intense pain from it for several weeks. On March 17th, at around 9:00am, he wasn't in pain anymore, and passed away in his home. He was 86 years old.
We are here to remember him and witness one last mystery, which Paul speaks of in 1 Corinthians 15:50-57. "Listen," he says, "and I will tell you a mystery":
We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed--in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, and then the saying that is written will come true: "Death has been swallowed up in victory."And, like Paul said earlier in 1 Corinthians 15:26: "The last enemy to be conquered is death."
In the meantime, if there wasn't a train set in heaven before, there sure is one now.
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