My Grandpa Harry died when I was in kindergarten. He had Parkinson disease as long as I knew him. He wasn't easy to talk to because of the shaky palsy. His voice was wavery and he was in bed all of the time. He was born in Oklahoma among the Cheyenne Arapaho people and I remember, sort of, that he talked about Indians. At least he did enough that I thought he was an Indian. But, as I say, he died when I was in kindergarten and I have very hazy unreliable memories of him.
In the past few years I have had a reminder of Grandpa when I go up to Quincy and attend Mass at St Francis. It was the very church to which he was a member, although he never went to church in my memory because, as I said, he was bedridden. There is a man, an elderly gentleman, who serves as an extraordinary minster at Communion who looks a lot like my grandpa. I never think of it until I am sitting behind him at Mass and then I start thinking about it. It makes me wonder about all the things I never knew about Harry. I wish I could have known him. I say a prayer for him and for my grandma when I go to Mass at that church.
And I have a confession to make. The last time I was at Mass I had my camera with me and it doesn't need a flash. I thought very hard about taking a picture of the man, just to remember Harry and maybe compare pictures of this man and Harry. But sanity took over and I remembered that I was at Mass and I needed to be praying the Mass and not taking surreptitious pictures of elderly gentlemen. So I didn't.