Like many of the best laid plans in life the post I had scheduled for today has been rescheduled. I have not the heart to truly communicate my sense of loss right now, only that which I can impart with you through pictures and the most profound confession of how much I loved my grandfather. Someday, perhaps I’ll speak more of this, or him, but for now I offer you these snapshots of the person I felt the strongest connection to in my family while growing up – despite spending the entirety of it separated by several states.
Fellow musicians we were, and it was through this I think that truly solidified our bonds. The piano in the picture is now in my home and upon which I play for my son. My grandfather grew up with that piano and, every time we spoke, he would ask if I was getting all of the talent he left in it. The above picture is us playing a duet – Romance without Words by Faure – about ten years ago. And, no, Grandpa, even if the longest of lifetimes is granted me there will never be enough time to absorb all the talent you left in that old upright.
The Funks (L-R): Grandma, Jake, Grandpa, Great Uncle Aaron (my grandfather’s brother), Nick, Dan, Aunt Heidi, Uncle Wayne, Mom, Brian (with the dog) and in the front row you have four month pregnant me, my nieces Anna and Sarah as well as my sister Michelle.
There are many I have not scanned that show him younger, spritely and as I will always remember him: Dancing around the room with me, singing and playing the organ to much hilarity and calamity that is family trying to spin around in a small space filled chock full of presents, a Christmas tree and each other. I’ll miss him.
For you Grandpa:
Death, be not proud (Holy Sonnet 10) by John Donne:
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.