Peace be with you, Pop

My Grandfather, Robert Jackson, died this morning, peacefully in his sleep at home.

He was 87 years old and lived a long happy life.

He was born in Rhode Island on February 19, 1921 and despite moving away when he was 19, maintained his New Englad accent his whole life. In fact, until I was eleven years old, I thought barb wire was pronouced "bob" wire, named after him, of course.

He started working after he completed eighth grade and worked until he retired after that.

He served as a truck driver in the army for four years during WWII in New Guinea. He told us stories about eating onions like apples and making friends with the submarine guys who had access to all the good foods.

He loved deserts; baking won't be the same without his loving and appreciative sweet tooth. Lemon was his favorite, but then again, he had many favorites.

He married my mother's mom when my mom was six. They lived in a mining town in the California desert until my grandmother died when she was only 51 and Pop retired. He lived in Arizona briefly before helping my parents buy their first house in Northern California (with all of his savings) and moving in with them in January of the year I was born.

He helped raise the three of us kids. He was always there; always kind, always Pop.

Every Sunday he made us his special buttermilk pancakes.

For those of you who knew him, you are lucky. He was a remarkable, thoughtful, loving, and kind man. He will be deeply, deeply missed by many.

I don't know any details of the memorial service or anything yet. I'm still in NYC but flying home early tomorrow morning. The rest of the family is gathering, too.

The world is a better place for having had Pop in it. For that, and for all the love he has given to all of us, I am eternally grateful.

Spirits like his do not die; he stays with many of us. He stays with me.



Peace be with you, Pop.

And with you.