How to Write a Eulogy for Grandpa

Good morning. I'm Caleb, Earl's oldest grandson. My dad is Wayne. To all of us grandkids, Grandpa was Pop.

Pop was born in 1936 in a two-room house outside Hereford with no electricity. He used to tell us he did his homework by kerosene lamp, and we used to roll our eyes, because he also told us he walked uphill both ways to school, and Hereford is the flattest place on earth.

He farmed wheat and milo on the same section of land for fifty-one years. He married Grandma Bea in 1958 and stayed married to her for sixty-three years, until she passed. He raised four kids, helped raise eleven grandkids, and got to hold six great-grandbabies. That's a lot of people. Most of them are sitting in this room.

My favorite memories of Pop are from harvest. When I was ten, he let me ride in the combine with him for the first time. It was loud, and hot, and the dust got in everything. He didn't talk much. He'd just point. A hawk on the fence. A coyote at the edge of the field. Storm clouds building to the west. He was teaching me to look.

At the end of that day, we sat on the tailgate with a couple of warm Dr Peppers and watched the sun go down over the stubble. He said, "Good day's work." That was it. That was the whole speech. But I've never felt so proud.

Pop taught me that a good life isn't flashy. It's showing up every morning, keeping your word, and looking out for the people next to you. He did that for eighty-seven years.

Pop, it was a good day's work. All of it. Rest now. We'll keep looking.

Hi everyone. I'm Maya, Joseph's granddaughter.

Grandpa Joe had one piece of advice he gave every grandkid, usually while handing you a five-dollar bill: "Spend half, save half, and never tell your grandmother." We all followed two out of three.

He was a mail carrier for thirty years in this town. He knew every dog by name. Some of you have told me this week that he used to leave dog biscuits in his pocket just for your dog. He said the biscuits were for safety. We all knew it was because he liked them.

He taught me to ride a bike, to tie a tie, and to write a real letter, with a stamp. He wrote me one every year on my birthday, even after I moved three blocks away from him.

The letters were never long. Usually a paragraph about the weather, a line about Grandma's garden, and some advice. "Change your oil every three thousand miles." "Don't marry anyone who's rude to a waiter." "Call your mother more." I keep them in a folder in my desk, and I reread them more than I'd like to admit.

He also never missed a single one of my softball games. He sat in the same spot behind third base in a folding chair he brought from home, because he said the bleachers were bad for his back. He'd clap for both teams. He said every kid out there deserved somebody cheering.

Grandpa, I'm going to write you a letter this year anyway. I know you'll find a way to read it.

We love you. Thank you for everything.

Hello. I'm Jake, one of Frank's grandsons. Grandpa wanted a short service with no fuss. So of course there are two hundred of you and a slideshow. He'd be horrified. Sorry, Grandpa.

Grandpa Frank was the most stubborn man I have ever known. He refused to own a cell phone until 2019. When he finally got one, he used it exclusively to call the landline at his own house to see if Grandma was home. She always was. She was sitting next to him.

He drove the same Ford pickup for twenty-six years and talked to it like a horse. He'd pat the dashboard and say, "Come on, old girl." When it finally died, he refused to sell it. It is still sitting behind his barn. It is, I believe, part of the estate. Good luck, Uncle Ron.

He also never once in his life admitted he was lost. He would drive two hours in the wrong direction before he'd stop and ask. On a family trip to Carlsbad Caverns in 1994, we saw a lot of New Mexico. Not the caverns. Just New Mexico.

But that stubbornness had another side. When Grandpa decided something was worth doing, nothing could stop him. When my mom got sick when she was young, he drove her to Houston for treatment every month for a year in that same Ford pickup. He didn't miss once. He didn't complain once. He just went.

That's what being stubborn looks like when it's pointed at love.

Grandpa, you never asked for directions, but somehow you always found your way to the people who needed you. We love you. Rest easy.

Thank you for being here. I'm Owen, Harold's grandson.

I'll be honest. I didn't know my grandfather as well as some of you did. He lived in Arizona most of my life, and we saw him a couple of times a year. He was a quiet man, and I was a loud kid, and we didn't always know what to say to each other.

So this week I asked around. I called my dad, my aunt, and two of Grandpa's old friends from the railroad. And I learned some things.

I learned that he worked for the Santa Fe railroad for thirty-two years and never once called in sick. I learned that he sent money to his younger brother every month for a decade when times were bad, and never told anyone. I learned that he kept every school picture I ever mailed him, in order, in a shoebox under his bed.

That last one got me. Because I didn't think he paid much attention. It turns out he was paying attention the whole time. He just didn't know how to say it.

My aunt told me that whenever a new picture came, he'd hold it up to the kitchen window for better light and say, "That boy's getting tall." Then he'd put it in the box with the others.

I think a lot of men from his generation were like that. They loved hard and quiet. I'm sorry I didn't understand it sooner. But I understand it now.

Grandpa, thank you for keeping the pictures. I'm going to keep yours. And I'm going to make sure my kids know who you were.