My grandfather passed away on Sunday. He was the last remaining grandparent for me, my mother's father. Eighty-four years old, he died in a veteran's home where he had lived these last few years. Last night was the visitation, tomorrow the funeral. And then, what?

For my mother and her siblings, life has not been the same since their mother left them in January. She meant so very much to them, to all of us who knew and loved her. Still, she was only half of who they are. Now the other half is gone. Their loss is my loss, trickled down a generation.

I sense their loneliness, their desperation, their new-found and unwanted independence. I empathize, as I have previously lost my father. But the other half of me knows not the hurt and loss, as my mother may actually outlive me. Thus I take comfort in having her to turn to. Merely knowing she is there provides strength within.

My grandfather told me jokes. He took my brother and me to his farm to cut down our family's Christmas tree. He built a clubhouse for me and my brother. He showed us how to make clouds disappear (never could make them re-appear). He gave me my first pocket knife. He made me a pair of stilts. And I used them.

My most memorable time with him was one particular trip to his farm. He actually let me drive his truck, saying he was too old or too tired to drive himself. I've forgotten the year, but it was summer time. He was retired and I was out of school for the year. This made the drive and the day very easygoing.

Our mission was to recover a large piece of a rock - I don't recall the name, but it was something like "dopolite" - that had settled on the bottom of a creek bed. It was discovered by Grandpa's best friend, Joe, for whom it was intended. Grandpa wanted to surprise his best friend with exactly what he wanted - a slab of something he couldn't pick up and take with him at first sight.

We backed up to the creek, to the spot where the stone lay. I still don't know how Grandpa knew where this thing was, but he pointed me right to it. I could not dead lift it, but I did manage to roll it up my hip and onto the tailgate of the truck. Grandpa complimented me on my strength, to which I may well have said, "aw-shucks", in embarrassment.

On the way back to town, we stopped at a country store. We might have bought gas, but I know we bought some of those fruit pies. The ones made of Crisco crust and stuffed with a fruit filling that requires an immediate dose of insulin. I think he ate two of the things and asked me not to tell Grandma. As if she weren't all too aware of his junk food binging.

We pulled into Joe's driveway and presented him with the largest piece of this important rock in the Western Hemisphere, or so he would have you believe. The man was truly grateful, regardless of the fact he already had a garden full of similar gems and minerals and little or no place to put any more.

On the way home, Grandpa expressed to me the significance of the good deed I had done, how Joe would remember it always. Soon thereafter, Joe died. I like to think Grandpa knew Joe's death was impending, that what we did together was one last thing that could be done for Joe. It reminds me today to do all I can, for it may be the last thing that can be done for a friend. It will never leave me, this lesson Grandpa taught me that day.