Colaborador: Created: 1 year ago Updated: 1 year ago
Sylvester Clinton Low
born...25 Mar 1911–died 30 Dec 1994
SYLVESTER CLINTON LOW
by Rodney Clinton Low, a son
My father, Sylvester Clinton Low (b; 25 mar. 1911, d; 30 Dec. 1994) was born in Smithfield, Utah, The oldest son, and first child of Leo Osborn Low ( b; 6 Jan 1889, d; 14 Sep. 1980 ) and Eliza Ellen Bingham ( b; 18 Jan. 1891, d; 16 Aug. 1956). Dad was raised in Smithfield, and when he was around two years old, his father was sent on a mission to California, for the LDS church. He and his mother went to live with his grandfather Sylvester. Grandmother Low had a great influence, and I think a lot of control of Dad, because of the time they spent together.
Dad was a big kid, an 11 pound baby, and grew to be a big man, and was probably the strongest man I have ever known. His hands were so strong, that he could really hurt you just by squeezing. One time my younger brother Randy and I were wrestling on the back lawn, I was on top and Randy was yelling for me to get off. Dad was working in the garden, and kept telling us to stop fighting. Finally he came over and took hold of my ankle and started squeezing. I let go of Randy and Dad kept squeezing, until I thought he would break my ankle, in fact I had a very tender ankle for a long time after, and really think he did break it. Another time, when Randy was older and much bigger. Dad had been watching TV and we told him that we would throw him out in the snow. Randy went up on one side, and I went up on the other. Dad grabbed me by the left wrist and Randy by the right wrist. He simply squeezed our wrists, and put us both to our knees begging for him to let go before he broke some thing. He just smiled and said, come on boys, throw the old man out. Dad must have been around 80 at the time, as Randy and I were both full grown.
He worked on the farms around town. He told of driving cows to the fields, and how he, and some of his other friend would tease Wayne Smith, during this time. I guess he did other types of farm work that was customary for the time. I know he worked for a neighborhood farmer, named Les Hansen, I think he also worked for other farmers in town.
I don’t think There was not a lot of emphases placed on education, as far as I know, he did not finish high school, in fact I think the 9th grade was as far as he went in school. He did not have a lot of use for “them collage kids, that don’t know nothing.”
Dad loved the game of basket ball, and participated in it as a player, and later as a coach, and then a referee . I think he was a better than average player, he was big, over 6 foot tall. Some where I have pictures of him on a championship team.
He had good friends in his neighborhood, Willford Woodruff, Grant Weeks, Nathan Griffith and others, together they did a lot of crazy things. Like driving a model T down the railroad tracks, and nearly running into the train. And other such activities. I think his early live was pretty carefree, as that time of life would be.
On Dec. 7th 1932, he and Roma Adeline Pilkington ( b; 25 Jun. 1915, d; 2 Jan. 2003) were married in the Logan Temple. I’m not sure, but I think Dad was working for the American Food Store in Smithfield, at the time, and the pay was 15 cent per hour. Times were pretty tough, but Dad and Mom got through it.
Dad was good friends with Moms brothers, Jay and Lew, and together they spent a lot of time together, and at times getting into trouble together. I am told that one time they found a 2 quart beer bottle with a fair amount black powder in it. The three decided they should light it to see what would happen, so they took the bottle out in the middle of the back yard of the old Adobi house. They lit a wooden stick match and dropped it into the neck of the bottle, and it went out, so another was tried with the same results, several more were dropped in until a small pile was formed on top of the powder. Finally a match started the pile of match sticks burning, with all three of the men gathered around the bottle watching the proceedings.
All of a sudden there was a little spark as the powder started to burn. All three started to run for protection, Lew went for the coal shed, Jay for big old Box Elder tree, and Dad headed for the house. Jay and Lew made their refuge just as the bottle blew, Dad was just going into the house. The bottle blew and glass flew in all directions. Jay was the fastest, and made it behind the tree in time, Lew was just going into the coal shed, and a sliver of glass flew by his head, just cutting a thin slice of flesh just above one ear. Dad had just hit the back door of the house when it blew, one shred of glass nailed him right in one cheek of his butt, going in a good ways. I guess Mom spent the rest of the afternoon with Dad bent over a table, picking glass out of the cheek of his butt.
Just as education seemed to be over looked in his early life, religious training did not seem to be a priority ether. I think it took Dad a long time to really get converted, and even then, he could pick and choose how he practiced his religion.
I don’t know at what time he went to work for Utah Power Co., I do know that he was hired as a temporary, and in actuality he never was hired full time, that just seem to evolve, and he ended up working for the power company for more that 40 years. Early in his career, he was hurt in an climbing mishap, and had to have his knee operated on. From then on, he was a truck driver, and was very proud of his job. I can remember when he got his first real big truck, a FWD especially equipped to do line work. He was pretty excited, and took special care in the maintenance of it.
A story of the big truck. In our back yard we had two very large Box Elder trees, I thought they were great trees, over 100 feet tall, and probably more than 3 feet in diameter. I always had a sand pile under the trees and spent many hours playing there. There was a large swing on a limb of one tree, and they were really beautiful. But they were close to he house, and as they grew larger and older, posed a threat to the house. I think it was about 1954 or 1955, that Dad decided the trees should be removed. He went to his boss at the power company, Jim Perkins, and obtained permission to use the big truck to help him remove the trees. We had worked most of the day getting the trees down and cleaned up, using the truck and it’s wench where we needed to. And then come the removal of the big stumps.. We had dug around the stumps and chopped the roots where we could find them, and felt the wench would pull the stumps out of the ground. Dad placed the truck, hooked up the derrick, and wench, and started to pull the stumps. All of a sudden there was a loud snap and the wench went slack.
Upon investigation, we found that both rear axles of the truck had broken. Dad was devastated, he immediately went to work on the truck, and found out that it would drive in 4 wheel drive, so he took it up to the warehouse, where it was kept. He pulled the broken axles, and found that they had broken off about 4 inches from the differential. This left a small piece of the axle, with the spines still in the differential. Now the problem was, how to get the small piece out. Dad fashioned a piece of tin can, that he shaped like a cup, sliding this into the axle housing, he would shake the broken piece until it came out of the spines and landed in the cup. Then he carefully lifted it out of the housing. The process took some time, but not as long as I thought it should.
He had called the parts store as soon as he found out what he needed, and ordered the new parts. He worked all day Sunday to get the broken axles out, and on Monday, as soon as the new axles arrived, he put them in, and the truck was fixed, good as new. I thought it was about the slickest piece of mechanic work I had ever seen, and he was relived to have the big truck working again.
The group of men that Dad worked with out of the Smithfield warehouse, was, Jim Perkins, the foreman, Arnold Nelsen, Smith Done, Oren Miles, Melvin Smith, Dads brother Leo Low, Arden Eckersley, and Dad. They spent a lot of time repairing power lines in Idaho and other places. They were not a long way away, but Jim Perkins liked to stay away from home, so the crew spent a lot of time out of town. They stayed a lot of time in Grace, Idaho, Soda Springs, Idaho, Montpelier, Idaho, all of these places were not much more than one hour away. It always seemed to me, that it would have been just as easy to drive back and forth, and spend the time with the family.
Dad loved the Old Adobe house we lived in. It was old and run down, and had none of the amenities of the time in it, but he loved it, and worked hard to maintain and improve it. as funds would permit, he and Mom would do what they though was needed to the house, hot water, plaster to the out side, bath room, larger opening to the front room, divide an upstairs bed room, improve the interior walls, remodel by adding bed room, bath room, utility room, down stairs bed room, central heating and storage room to the old house. By this time it was a pretty nice place to live. And then 4 years later, the earth quake of 1962, took the old part down. Dad was heart broken as was Mom, but they went to work and built a new part where the old house once stood.
Dad also loved his garden, he worked tirelessly in it, and it was always beautiful. All summer long you could see him out in the garden, with his pants at half mast and a little crescent moon shining. He had his special way of doing things in the garden, and didn’t like others interfering. When he had a Raspberry patch, he hated to have Grandma Elsie get in it, he said she would go through it like a tornado, ripping the berries off the stocks, and breaking most of them ,. He said she could more damage in one picking, than he could restore in all the summer. He could grow things in that garden that very few people could grow, things like Parsnips. He had a special way he planted them, so as to not get them too deep, and then he knew who much water to give them so they would grow. All of my family loves Parsnips, and most of Dads grand children like them also.
Dad liked to hunt and fish. They are the times that I remember the most about him. Preparing to go hunting or fishing, the day before, cleaning the rifles, or checking the fishing gear. Getting up early in the morning, him fixing breakfast for us, the ride to the selected area, and then the activity, they will always be special memories. I remember him taking me duck hunting when I was very little, so little, that when we would get in deep water he would put me on his shoulders and pack me to higher ground, I would take my bee bee gun with the shot tube removed so it would just make a loud pop. I did this until I was old enough to carry a real shot gun and legally hunt.
The Christmas morning I got my 1st shotgun was a special moment in my life. The gun was a Iver Johnson Champion single shot, in 16 gauge. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. We took a lot of ducks and Pheasants together while I used that little gun.
After a day of hunting it was even fun to get home and go to work cleaning the game, we skinned the Pheasants, which didn’t take much time. but we picked the ducks, and this took a lot of time. A limit of Ducks in those days could be as many as 20 birds, so to pick that many, took a lot of time. we would sit out in the pasture and pick ducks for hours. Feathers would be every where, even in your mouth, and you would usually have a few duck lice crawling on you before you were through. Saturdays were the usual day to hunt, and so Sunday dinner was special during the hunt. Mom would roast up several ducks for dinner and we would have a feast.
This remembrance is taken from the article titled, “TED FARRELL LOW, MY YOUNGER BROTHER,”
I remember one Saturday morning, Ted, Dad, and I had gone down to the Clay slew duck hunting. We were walking out to a pond of water, when Dad said he had a personal job he had to do. He stopped behind some sage brush, and Ted and I walked on.
We had only gone a short distance, when a large flock of geese got up off the pond and flew to the East and then way to the South. Ted and I stood and watched them, they turned and headed straight for us, we hurried to a fence line, and I told Ted to stand next to a post and not to move.
The geese kept coming, and got lower and lower. They were going to land back on the pond. They came right over Ted and I, at about 40 feet in the air. I was waiting for Ted to shoot, and the flock started to pass over us. and still no shot from Ted. Then I heard Dad yelling, “shoot Rod , shoot,” he was running toward us, with his paints about half mast, and yelling as loud as he could. I picked out a bird and was just about to pull the trigger, when Ted shot and the exact bird I was aiming at, folded. I quickly changed to another one, and folded it, and then Ted and I got a third one together.
I think the scene was rather memorable. Ted and I trying to decide which one is going to shoot and at what goose to shoot. and Dad running across the barrens pulling up his paints and boots with one hand, his gun and other gear in the other, and yelling at the top of his voice, ”shoot, Rod, Shoot.”
We would go fishing up Smithfield Creek in the spring, I can remember the fresh cold air, and the Robins chirruping. It was exciting to get in the canyon in the spring, and so much fun to pick up a few trout to take home and show Mom, and then have her fix them for supper that night, or for breakfast the next morning.
And then there was the Deer hunt. Up the canyon well before light and climb the mountain in the dark, so we could be in place when it got light and the deer were moving. We generally went up Thornley hollow, or mine hollow, or lime quarry hollow. All three of them are together in the canyon. We were usually successful in our hunting, and have brought many good deer out of the canyon. We hunted one other place, Indian canyon, a well hidden canyon up Smithfield Main, where the Indians use to hide after they raided the settlement. It is steep and hard to climb, but there are usually deer in it. I remember Dad making an especially good shot on one up Indian Canyon. He only had a little 30-30 Winchester, but was a very good shot with any gun he used.
Dad kind of lost his enthusiasm for the out door life as he got older, he said the mountains got steeper, and the water colder. I feel a little sad that Randy didn’t get to enjoy as much time with Dad in the out doors as I did. It was great fun and good times, and wonderful memories. I think I could tell endless stories about this Pheasant hunt, or that duck hunt, or unnumbered trips into the out doors I made with Dad.
After I got married and moved away from home, my relationship with Dad seemed to fade a little, we didn’t have as much in common and I was not around very much. I still enjoyed coming home, and doing things with him, but it was never the same as when I was young. I really wanted to have that same special feeling that I use to get when we would do things together, and from time to time it would be there, but Dad was older, and had other interests, and I would only be around for a short time, and then be gone, so it was hard to really get settled in. I still love to think about the good times, the hunts, the special work parties, and I plan to write more of them as the spirit moves
I loved my Dad, and had a wonderful time growing up with him. I’m sure he was not perfect, but neither am I. I think he did the best he knew how at the time, and at the time, lots of things were pretty tough.
Rod Low 7 June 2005
Colaborador: Created: 1 year ago Updated: 1 year ago
SYLVESTER CLINTON LOW
a Life Sketch
Lezlie Zollinger and Terri Cartwright
given as a funeral address on
January 2, 1995
We as granddaughters feel very humbled by this assignment, but are truly grateful for the opportunity to pay tribute to our Grandfather, who we have a great love, pride and respect for. May we share a bit our Grandpa with you.
Sylvester Clinton Low was born on March 25, 1911/ he was the first child of Leo Osborne and Eliza Ellen Bingham Low, and was later followed by a brother Leo, a sister Lillian and another brother Oliver Dick.
“Biggie,” as he is affectionately called by the children in our family, loved to reminisce and had a wonderful memory. He often would tell stories of what it used to be like. He would recall Smithfield as it was and the changes to buildings and businesses in town. He was a “good-ol-hometown boy.” that loved his little community and it’s people. He also shared stories with us of his family and growing up in the place he loved. Just last spring as I sat and chatted with him, he looked out his kitchen window, across the street to the home that belonged to his grandparents and related to me this story.
When he was about 2, his father went on a mission and he, with his mother moved in with his grandparents. One day while sitting out on the fence, a group of Indians (who were always fed and welcomed at the Low home) stopped on their way through town. Grandpa was wearing a string of brightly colored beads that he had acquired from a girls activity that his mother had been in charge of. Susie Waterhouse, a little Indian girl, spied the beads and was relentless in securing them for herself. After a little tussle, Susie Waterhouse walked out of town with the string of brightly colored beads.
Grandpa adored his mother and would often share stories of her. So much so that she became alive for all of us who didn’t have the opportunity to know her. He told of how she called him to bring in the wood and help stoke the fire for the oven, where she would bake pies from whatever fresh fruit was in season. My own mother still now judges her own pies and culinary skill by whether Grandpa liked it as if it was a good as Grandma Eliza’s.
The neighborhood in which Grandpa grew up in was an ideal childhood setting.
Friends meeting on the corners to play games, carrying a cap gun on your hip to bring in the cows and countless hours of basketball. Grandpa told of a Halloween night in his youth when he and friends, Wilf Wooduff, Grant Weeks and Nate Griffiths went through town performing their antic’s. a hay wagon pushed in the ditch, or hay rack hoisted to the top of a telephone pole and Grandpa Pilkington’s covered bridge turned upside down in the ditch.
When they returned to the dance being held uptown, Grandpa Oz with knowledge of these antic’s gave them the option of taking care of things as they were right now, or spending a night in jail and taking care of things in the morning. I’m sure this was one night when having the City Sheriff as your father wasn’t a pleasant experience. All in all Grandpa said of that night, “It was just a boring night.”
Friends meeting at the corner for games and fun. It was on such a corner where Grandpa came speeding to, in an old “beater of a car”, and stopped to give the neighborhood girls a ride and a bit of a scare as he took them to the city cemetery. One of those neighborhood girls was Roma Pilkington.
That began an eighteen month courtship. Roma and Clinton were married December 7, 1932 in the Logan Temple, during the height of the depression. He was 21 and she 17.
The work ethic my Grandfather valued was displayed as he struggled to provide for his new young family, to which were born, Marilyn, Rodney, Ted and Randall.
Starting out he always found odd jobs and worked hard to provide for them, my Grandmother relates. He shoveled manure for 50 cents a load and worked the coal yard. Later an employee of American Foods and then the profession of running high power lines for Utah Power and Light Company in which he worked for, 32 years.
He told us just weeks ago how he wished he had written down all the stories and adventures of the days with the power company. Thought the work was hard and most of his days spent away from home, he loved working for the company and loved the association and friendship he had with his co-workers. One especially being his brother, Leo.
Grandpa enjoyed hunting and fishing especially with his sons and son-in-law. Grandpa and Grandma purchased a trailer and with that purchase came much enjoyment. Grandma has fond memories of a trip to Calgary Canada with 5 other couples and how Grandpa was thrilled by the Stampede and the other festivities there.
Grandpa was quite content right here in Smithfield but on one occasion did travel to California to visit Rod, Peg and family. I love this memory for I was fortunate to go with them as it was my 8th birthdays present. We traveled by train and had a wonderful vacation in Southern California. This very special memory I will always cherish.
I know of no other person who was such a fan of the Smithfield Blue Sox baseball team. The team never played a home game without him cheering them on. For years he ran the Lions concession stand and was very particular about it’s running smoothly and paying attention to every detail. He always had an extra “Lion Pup” to give to a granddaughter with a gum ball thrown in.
Grandpa was an avid sports spectator form his big brown chair. Whether it was the running of the Kentucky Derby in the spring or the World Series in the fall, he was there enjoying each event. Much of this was instilled in my mother as well as myself. I am on the edge of my seat for each running of the Kentucky Derby in May and I feel a certain excitement in the air each fall as the World Series comes into play. And mind you, we cheer for the American League teams, this he would remind me of each year.
Along with many happy times came great trials. In 1962 a large earthquake destroyed much of their home, which was so difficult for Grandpa as it was also his birthplace and childhood home. Even after rebuilding, he was left with a fear of earthquakes. Then a part of his heart was forever gone with the passing Ted in 1965.
Grandpa was a guanine friend with a sincere care and delight in people. After retirement from Utah Power and Light, he worked for a short time at Cantwell Lumber and More recently could be seen every Thursday at the Smithfield Auction, spending his whole day cajoling with friends there. Many people have told us of the void they will feel at seeing his empty chair.
My Grandpa was a gentle giant, he never did spank of get angry. His language was colorful and most times quite delightful, his comments unique and characteristic of his large stature yet gentle heart, they most often brought laughter and fun.
Grandpa was striped overalls, apple trees and tire swings. There was always a baseball cap or cowboy hat, a hoe in hand and catch in the get-a-long. Grandpa insisted no knives in the jelly jar, no picking in the Thanksgiving turkey. He was John Wayne movies, Bonanza and the rifleman. He was Lawrence Welk on Saturday night with a granddaughter on his lap. And to all of us he had the finest garden spot in town.
We all loved his garden and his meticulous yard. We each learned how to mow straight lined on the lawn and never hoe a row of vegetables without first having a strung a guide string. Crops were grown in specific order, potatoes by the carrots, squash by the cucumbers, tomatoes by the peppers. He loved to savor the first fruits of the harvest and then the bounty he shared with pride. Come pick your Halloween pumpkins and a sack full of apples, but let the parsnips stay awhile till after a touch of frost.
Several years ago, I was asked to give a talk at a fireside. As part of that talk I wrote a poem, I would like to share that poem with you, for Grandpa was the basis of my poem.
In the far side of a garden
A kind and gentle man
Was on a bended knee
With the choicest of seeds in his hands.
“Oh Father,” he prayed, please bless them
For these seeds mean the most to me
I will plant them
I will nourish them
Help them grow as great as I know they can be
May they feel the warmth of the sun
May I be there to care and tend for them
And may the weeds they overcome.
When the warmth of the summer sun is dimmed
And the days of the growing season do not seem as long
I will harvest these small seeds
Because through the seasons they”ve been so strong.
The crop of my small garden is always such a joy to me
And with the choicest of seed may I ever be blessed with from thee.
There was another kind and gentle man
And he too was on bended knee
“Oh Father,” he prayed, please help them
For these souls mean the most to me.
They will be on the earth for such a short time
Away from our presence and sight
Help them overcome the adversary
Help them be strong and fight.
May they feel the warmth of my Love
May the spirit guide their way
May they always remember, I’m Here
If only they but pray.
Help them learn of the sacrifice I”ve given them
May they find the gospel path
May they make the right choices
May they never, never turn back
And when the seasons of life are through
That path will show them the way
May these choicest of souls return to me
Their Savior, Jesus Christ someday.
The full circle of his life began and ended on the same spot of ground, yet the influence and love was felt a far greater distance. The foundation of heritage and the life he provided for us are the most cherished memories that will never leave us. We will embrace these memories until the day when those big Grandpa arms and large tender hands again embrace us. Grandpa Biggie we love you.
We say this in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.
Funeral Address of Clinton S. Low
Colaborador: Created: 1 year ago Updated: 1 year ago
CLINTON S. LOW
There’s something unique about the relationship of a boy and his grandfather. For me, and I think I speak for all of Clint Low’s grandchildren. Grandpa was already a legend when I was still in diapers. In my little childlike mind, he was bigger than anyone, stranger than anyone, smarter than anyone. He could fix anything, build anything, and grow anything. He was the biggest, strongest, most able man in the whole world.
I think my earliest recollection of Grandpa went something like: “Get out of those raspberries!” When I was four or five years old, I used. to sneak our to his garden and sit on the warm earth in the raspberry patch, using both hands to snatch the bright red berries into my mouth as fast as I could. All the while I would peek over the top of the bush to see where Grandpa was and make sure that I was still unnoticed.
Grandpa’s yard was a fantasy land. It was big and green and beautiful. Cam and Terri and Mike and I spent weeks of our childhood in the barn playing and swinging from the rope. Grandpa’s shop was a pirate’s cove or the bridge of the enterprise or everything else in between. And his garden was paradise.
Those of you that went to the viewing earlier. I hope you noticed his hands. You see, on his hands are written the story of his life. They’re big strong, powerful hands. They’re worn and wrinkled. But they are also soft and warm.
The only thing he was missing at the viewing was his suspenders. The last time I saw him dressed in those clothes, he was wearing suspenders. I had just gone though the veil when I felt that big, warm hand on my shoulder. I turned around and looked at him , and he looked at me and didn’t say a word.
You see, everything he did , he did with style, with character. When you went outside, you put on a hat. When you went to the temple, you wore suspenders.
I guess what we are talking about is a man who was the heartbeat, the baseline of his entire family. He was a true patriarch. He kept his family bound together and strong, up to the very end.
I think one of Grandpa’s greatest talents was his ability to tell a story. He could use the English language like no other I have seen. He knew how to use words and phrased in the right way to evoke the desired emoticon in his listeners. Some of you may think it funny, but to me it is very serious. The man was a storyteller, bar none. He was like a Joel Chandler Harris or a Washington Irving. Maybe even like Mark Twain.
The way he told the classic story about the hen’s nest is a perfect example. Right at the climax, he’d pause, look down and shake his head. Then he’d look you in the eye and point and say. “That horse never took a step. His front feet come together with his hind feet and that feller went straight up in the air. And that was it. There wasn’t another further.”
For me, some of the greatest memories I will have of Grandpa are of his last days with us. I don’t feel that it is morbid to talk about it because it was such a peaceful, warm time at his home. When it became obvious last month that Grandpa was not going to get well. I took a few days off work and with one of my boys went up to see him . I spent a short time alone with him in his bed room talking about nothing in particular. But I savor those last few private moments I had with him. And I’m thankful to Grandma and Randy and Dad for allowing me that time. We talked about the weather and cows and such. He told a story or two. But we both knew underneath what the conversation was really about. In his own was he bore his testimony about the meaning of life and the reason he was enduring what he was. I remember I told him. “Well Grandpa, I’m sorry to see you have to hurt like this, I wish there was something I could do.” and he said, “Well we’re all put on this Earth for a reason, and sometimes we’re given things we don’t like. I guess it’s up to us to figure out why. We’ll learn from all this. But the minute you open you’re yappin’ mouth on the day you were born, I’ll tell you what. It begins.”
At the end of our meeting, he asked for a blessing. This was quite unusual and special to me. Usually when the patriarch dies, he blesses his family. This time, the patriarch asked his grandson for a blessing. I have never had an experience like that one. As I left, I thought what a great teaching moment he had given me. To be able to stand there, with Dad and Randy, and place my hands on my Grandfather’s head and bless him. My son sat in a near by chair and watched it all. It was a experience we will never forget.
At Christmas our family has the tradition of opening presents at Grandpa’s house. Although his house is probably the smallest one in the family, everyone including the great-grand children, gathers there every Christmas. It’s probably because that house is still the warmest and happiest house in the family as well. This year was no different. While Grandpa rested in his room, the family gathered in the living room and enjoyed opening presents. It was, as always, an enjoyable event.
When we were finished we all gathered in his room to wish him a Merry Christmas. Some of the family had prepared a few small gifts for him. While he was opening his first gift, he stopped, covered his face and began to weep. His big body shook as he sobbed while we all stood in silence. Then Grandma come over and bending down, cradled his head and kissed him. And it became very difficult to tell who the real giant was. Please remember that this was one of the most sacred events I have experienced.
Sixty two years of marriage together showed its results then. What a marvelous couple my Grandparents are. In a society where love is synonymous with pleasure and commitment requires a lawyer, for those two people 62 yours is not long enough. In their life together, we can see the beginning of eternity.
What we are talking about is what Malachi promised us when he said that the Lord “would plant in the children the hearts of the fathers and the children will turn to their fathers.” Grandpa has done what the prophet did when said, “I will burn my testimony in your hearts.” So for us, Grandpa has become a part of us. And we can see him in all of us. He is still with us. He is still our home. This I know to be true.;