There are people in this world who love loudly, and there are people who love steadily. The steady kind are the ones who shape your life so deeply that you do not even realize how much of yourself was built by them until one day they are gone.
My Popou was that kind of man.
He passed away on Memorial Day, which somehow feels fitting for someone who spent his entire life serving others quietly, consistently, and without ever asking for recognition. He was the kind of man who showed love through action. Through showing up. Through fixing things. Through teaching. Through making sure the people around him were cared for before he ever worried about himself.
When I think about him, I do not think about grand speeches or dramatic moments. I think about ordinary days that now feel sacred.
I think about him teaching me how to drive. Patiently sitting in the passenger seat while I learned the difference between confidence and overconfidence. I think about him teaching me how to clean a gun safely and properly, because to him responsibility mattered just as much as knowledge did.
I think about brake pads spread out in the shop while he explained what every piece did, and me pretending I understood more than I did. I think about holding the flashlight wrong and hearing him gripe because somehow no grandchild in history has ever pointed a flashlight where it actually needed to go.
And I would give just about anything to hold that flashlight one more time.
I think about how he picked me up from school in Carney and drove me to Stillwater three times a week for taekwondo practice. The miles he put on vehicles for us without complaint. The countless tournaments he attended without ever acting like it was an inconvenience. Looking back now, I realize how much love is hidden inside consistency. Inside simply always being there.
He was there for football games when I was in band. There for tournaments. There for holidays. There for all of us.
The Fourth of July was Pop’s absolute favorite holiday. There has never been a more patriotic person than my Popou. Between him lighting off mortars and us kids chasing each other around with sparklers, we were always told stories about what makes our great nation so great.
Also on every Fourth of July, all us grandkids fought over who got to be on his volleyball team because everybody knew the same thing: if Popou was on your side, you had the best chance of winning. Not just because he was good, but because being next to him made you feel so much stronger.
That is who he was to all of us. Our strength.
Some of my favorite memories are the quiet ones. Going with him to the cemetery in Tryon on holidays to raise and lower the flags. Watching the care he took in folding them properly, teaching me every step until the folds were crisp and respectful. He taught me that honoring people matters. That traditions matter. That service matters.
Most importantly, he taught me how to treat people.
He taught me to be helpful. To be neighborly. To stop and help someone even if you are busy or tired. To show up when people need you. To wave at folks as you drive. To lend tools. To fix what you can. To carry yourself with kindness and humility.
He was the best man I have ever known.
And maybe the hardest part of losing someone like that is that they always seem invincible. You spend your whole life believing they will always be there, because they always have been. They become part of the foundation beneath your feet. You cannot imagine the world without them in it.
But even now, he is still here in a hundred little ways.
He is in every brake job somebody does because he taught them how. He is in every folded flag. Every pop of a firecracker. Every fixed fence. Every grandkid who learned what hard work looks like. Every act of kindness done quietly when nobody is watching.
He loved all of us deeply.
You never had to question it.
And while our family feels impossibly heavy right now, I know how lucky we were to have him at all. Some people spend their whole lives searching for an example of what a good man looks like.
We had the best one.
And he will be missed every single day.