Friday lunch for eighty in a Masonic Temple basement in Montrose, Michigan with sisters, cousins, nieces, aunts, uncles and mom. We know how to cook, serve and cleanup in that space as former kitchen assistants to this man, Elwyn Johnson, my 95 yo grandpa who died this week and was buried with a 21 gun salute by friends from the VFW. A young soldier who helped liberate Paris, fought in the Battle of the Bulge, and crossed the Rhine with dry feet courtesy of his 9th armored division, this was the kind of tough man who took a dance class with grandma the month he got back from the war. A master mechanic, licensed electrician, and retired GM man, he drove my grandma to every state in the continental U.S. in their motorhome greeting nearly everyone in the parks. He could back a long rig with a trailer through a maze of trees without lifting an eyebrow. So many pictures tell the story. His handshake was crushing. His hugs were real. He was the go-to-fix-it-guy for five generations of family and friends. I like this picture with his fish. He wasn’t going to throw it back in the water. Are you crazy? That baby is mounted on the living room wall with all of his other honors. There’s a story there. One of his favorites. We can talk about it after this inning of Tiger baseball.