I wanted to add something that happened a couple of days after my Grandpa passed. I was sitting at my desk in my home office looking out the window and thinking of my grandparents. I became very sad and started crying wishing that I could just let them know how things are and that I am expecting my first child (which would have thrilled them both).

When I opened my eyes there was a beautiful butterfly on the window looking in at me. And as my sister wrote about Grandpa saying goodbye to her that morning (bless your pea pickin heart) I really believe that was my Grandma telling me that all would be well.

That delicate butterfly stayed on my window for 20 minutes. No small feat considering the danger of 2 hungry spiders lurking nearby on the window ledge. She stayed just long enough for me to be amazed/comforted and then fluttered off.

I hope to see them again someday in Heaven. But for now I guess I will have to be satisfied with little reminders that people may go but memories, lessons and love are forever.

Amy Vermillion

City: Charlotte, NC

As my sister here writes, he made us feel safe, he played games with us, and he really made me laugh. His patience with children was amazing, I can see now as an adult, and we had many adventures together. There was the fishing, yes, of course, and we'd go to Gordon or either of the Clam Lakes, but there were the mundane things, too, and he always made them fun. When I'd visit in Glidden, we'd get up early every morning and walk up into town for the daily errands. We'd go to the post office, the bank, the IGA, and often Dreshgie's for a soda at the counter. (I know I've misspelled the Sundries' store owner, but that is long-ago lost in my cerebral archives, I'm afraid.) We'd water the garden from the pump at the side of the house, or go down in the root cellar to bring up some canning. Once a week or so, we'd go to the laundromat on top of the hill, and all the while, Grandpa would tell me stories of his childhood or share woodsy, gardening or fishing lore. "Red sky at night, sailor's delight...wind from the west is when fishing is best..." He told me about growing up in the Depression in Glidden; how the church gave them an orange and peppermint stick at Christmas and a small basket at Easter, and what treats they were, since the family couldn't afford such frivolous spending; or how he never had a bicycle for the same reason, so he dragged a dented little red wagon about instead, but that he got his first car when he was about 13. He told me of his early jobs, many lost with time and technology, like being a gandy dancer, a dangerous occupation and early testimony to his wiry strength and determined endurance, as well as his love of the outdoors. He loved cars and was a talented handyman in all things, always up for any sort of project, toting his carefully-maintained toolboxes, one in the upstairs closet and the bigger one in the garage. We took long walks together on John Derringer's property adjacent to theirs, spying deer and the occasional coyote on the way. Later, John would will the land to Grandma and Grandpa, and then Grandpa, the earliest recycler I know, would bury any edible trash we had, turning and cultivating it, not for compost, but for fishing worms. Sometimes, we'd take flashlights and hunt about for nightcrawlers, and I'd jump at them before they could disappear, Grandpa laughing and encouraging my seven-year-old's efforts. There was always the secret scary thrill that we might run into a bear there at night, but, as Amy said, we always felt safe with Grandpa, and tested our little limits of daring in the freedom of the Northwoods. Grandpa often said to me, "I'll try anything once," and in my child's eyes, that seemed to me a great outlook on life. Grandma and Grandpa once rented me an old bicycle from a neighbor up there, and I spent that summer biking far and alone up and down those streets; the biggest thrill of all of course was dragging it up to the top of the hill and then flying down, hair blowing and eyes streaming from the sheer speed and danger of the thing, daring myself to peddle, that I might go faster yet. We helped neighbors garden, particularly "Mrs. Greenbeans," whose name I don't know, if I ever even knew it at all, an older lady down the alley, who had rows and rows of the stuff, and was always in need of pickers. Grandpa and I would walk over and pick for her, surely a taxing task, but we'd tell jokes and share stories, and somehow the time passed very quickly. Grandma and I would cook dinner, and once we even made apple pies from scratch. I put far too much butter on my crust, and while her pie came out perfectly, mine was a sea of yellow and had to be in the oven far longer that the butter might run off and seep into the crust. That was one soggy pie, I can tell you, but they both ate pieces of each pie, regardless, telling me it was delicious, despite all evidence to the contrary. That's how they were, you see. There wasn't a scolding or a disapproving word from Grandma while I was creating that messy pie; she just let me discover, by comparison with hers when both were finished, that I had made a mistake. It worked, you know? After all, I am now 46 and still remember that lesson. I'm still not much of a baker, but at least my pies aren't soggy. They had a lot of friends, too, like Bernie and Dorothy Peterhansel, and we'd often go to some of the local taverns, like The Last Resort, or have dinner at one of the supper clubs, laughing, telling tales, and playing foosball, munching on Slim Jims and landjaghers. Dorothy has told me that she and Grandma went to the World Series together as girls, and Bernie is still a Cubs fan, though they've been up north since I was young.

When Grandma got ill, Grandpa cared for her lovingly for all those years, eventually spending weeks and months at the terrible motel Hillcrest in Marshfield, across from the hospital; in time, taking her home at the last for those long, terrible months, all hope lost, but determined that she would not die in the hospital. He cared for her better than any nurse could have, even cleaning her up before the paramedics arrived, so that she would have her dignity. When she died, he was devastated.

Grandma and Grandpa were loving, supportive, indulgent grandparents, and it seemed we could do no wrong in their eyes, which, of course, made us all the more careful never wanting to disappoint them. Their laughter and their love were things we knew we could count on, and we knew we could come to them with anything. They would never be judgmental or angry, but would give us good advice and comfort, while maintaining our confidences. They were proud of us let us know it. They kept little mementos and remembrances of us about, in addition to the traditional photos. I once gave Grandma a cheap little plastic donkey I'd won at the Teletype picnic, and he sat forever after on the high shelf for display, first above the phone in the Chicago apartment and then in the kitchen in Glidden. They had a serving tray with fish on it hanging upside down so the bubbles were going the wrong way, and when I asked about it, Grandma said, "That was Grandpa's idea. It's a great conversation starter, and fun to see if people notice." At home at night, Grandpa always wore these crazy orange-striped tiger socks to make us laugh. They had leathered soles, so they lasted for years, complete with felt nails on the toes, and he'd chase about with our dog Sophie with them, though she did get one of those felt toenails, so forever after, the tiger socks were short one felt toe. On those long terrible car trips up north, Grandma would talk with me about growing up in the city, and her sisters, and catching streetcars, and about my mom as a child. Imagine keeping a child entertained for that drive without air conditioning on those two-lane roads north of Phillips...yet, they did it, and I can only hope I was never whiny.

Simply put, my Grandma and Grandpa (pronounced "Grammangrampa") whose kind laughter is ever-etched into my heart, made our childhoods magical, safe and happy. Gosh, they each had a great laugh. Some of Grandma's mannerisms were akin to Lucille Ball's, and I always get misty when I see an old Lucille Ball movie, because I can see my dear Grandma in her place. I cried when I heard of our Grandpa's death, and have for many days since, and did not sleep much that first night, to be sure. When I began to rouse in the early morning, in that half-state between sleeping and waking, I was brought to consciousness hearing a familiar, but long unheard voice, clearly in my ear saying, "Well, bless your pea-pickin' heart." I don't know that I've ever much believed in such things, but I do know that there's no one else I've ever heard use that phrase, and in truth, I'd even forgotten it altogether until I heard it that morning. He used to say it when I gave him a gift, and I'd like to think that that was what he was giving me that morning: a last gift and farewell, letting me know that, despite time, distance and the way of things, we were, after all and at the last, in his heart, the way Grandma and Grandpa will always be in ours.

My Grandma and Grandpa were not sophisticated, rich, well-traveled, or even very well-read, though Grandma loved her crosswords and always had a novel going, and Grandpa favored the paper and Louis L'Amore, but they were all the world to us, and I am forever grateful for the gifts of their patience, love, humor and attention, but most of all for the gifts of themselves and for the nonjudgmental guidance allowing us to test our limits in the great Northwoods and beyond. When life has been difficult, I often think, "I'll try anything once," and I get through it. Goodbye, Grandma, I love you, thank you for eating that terrible pie, and Grandpa, Goodbye, thank you for my childhood, bless your pea-pickin' heart.

Lisa Martineau Mackie

City: Arlington Heights, IL

Amy Vermillion

City: Charlotte, NC