"Good things happen to good people like you and me."

To my Gramps. One of the loves of my life.

This eulogy, from Russell L. Grinold’s funeral services on Saturday, September 27th, 2008, was written and delivered by his granddaughter, Tina M. Grinold.

Good morning.

Or, as my grandfather would say, “Hello, hello, said the man with two heads.” He would then follow either by asking how I was or by cracking a sly joke and then asking how I was. Nodding, listening closely, his eyes would sparkle, beautifully magnified by those big old bifocals he wore. And as I spoke, I could tell how genuinely he cared about what I was saying, how genuinely he wanted to make me laugh. With arms crossed and heart open, he’d say, “I see…said the blind man, as he picked up his hammer and saw.” He would look at me in that impish, mischievous way; his laugh would rumble up from the depths of his being; and at that moment I knew…all was right with the world. No matter where we were, as long as we were together, my grandfather made me feel at home.

My grandfather was a beautiful contradiction. He was a living, breathing paradox. He was a tough guy and a softy. He maintained control out on the streets and relinquished control in the kitchen. He was an enforcer and a supporter. He set rules. He followed rules. And he knew how to break them. He had German Shepherds and Beagles. He was a dog and a cat person. He loved Cadillacs and he loved pansies.

My grandfather embodied the phrase “tough love.” In a way, I see his life’s journey as a progression from the “tough” to the “love.” And in looking at that progression, in looking at who he was, through and through, I am learning more about me and who I want to be.

In my mind, my gramps represents an era that I never knew and could never fully understand. He is a time capsule showing me pieces from my family’s past and my country’s past, showing me pieces of things that I will try to carry through in my life and also some things that I will never condone.

But he is my grandfather; I love him; and I never, ever questioned his love for me.

Since the day I was born, he has been making me laugh, supporting me, and making me feel like a princess. When he called me Cutie, I knew I was beautiful and deserved to feel that way. When he stood by his family through the years, even when it was hard to do, I saw what true love and devotion looked like.

More recently, when he started trying to marry me off to any male nurse or doctor we came across, I realized he only wanted to make sure I’d be ok. He’d say to them, “This is my granddaughter. Isn’t she beautiful?”

I would turn scarlet and tell him not to be fresh.

He would look from me to whichever guy it happened to be and say, “Are you married?”

They would be gracious and charming, and eventually they would leave. As I scolded him, that impish look would come back, and he’d say, “What?! Would it be so bad to have a doctor in the family?”

When he slipped me various bills through the years, I knew it wasn’t about the money. It was about his generosity, his unwavering support. Two days ago, as I was looking through old family pictures, I wandered around my grandparents’ basement and found myself wading through the images, the special moments of their life together.

I came upon a little note I’d left them a long time ago, maybe ten or twelve years ago. I signed my name on a note pad and underneath it I wrote: “This is going to be worth money some day.” Underneath that, in his distinctive print, my grandfather wrote back: “You’re worth more than money now, Cutie.” It has been something like twelve years, and he never tore off the page.

Through the tears welling up in my eyes and the baseball growing in my throat, I looked around. As if through the black and white flicker of his old film projector, splashing the past across the walls, showing footage of my father and uncle when they were babies, toddlers, and teenagers—much to my father’s chagrin—I saw his very own life mythology flash before my eyes.

My grandfather kept a close, careful chronicle of the loves in his life.

I saw a proud and devoted public servant. As a Hartford cop, a state policeman, a national guardsman, and a military man, my grandfather maintained a high moral code and a sincere pledge to serve and protect others. I noticed a framed citation, praising him for his bravery, for his willingness to put himself in harm’s way. Because of him, a murderer, armed and dangerous, was taken into custody. I had never noticed this before. He never bragged about it. He never brought his work home with him. With all of its challenges and hardships, my grandfather never burdened anyone else. He never took any of those hardships out on anyone else. And this is just one of many ways he helped make other people’s lives better.

He also was one of the few officers given the honor to work closely with Gov. Ella Grasso in the 70’s. As her bodyguard and chauffer, he once again took on the role of protector. I understand that Ella was a tough cookie, and gramps respected her for it. While most people would sit in the back seat, she insisted on sitting in the front seat with him. She even asked him to pull over on the highway sometimes to pick wildflowers, knowing full well that this was not technically permitted in the state of CT. It seems the two of them shared a similar understanding of the important things in life. They were able to appreciate the other’s toughness, while also embracing the simple beauties and pleasures surrounding them.

I continued my trip down his memory lane, and my tears started to dry. The baseball began to shrink. I saw a proud and devoted husband, father, uncle, friend, brother, son, colleague…grandfather. I saw a man who could be serious and silly. I saw someone who knew what he liked, someone who cherished the seemingly small moments in life. I saw his sense of humor bounce from wall to wall. I saw a full and happy life. I saw my grandfather in ways that I hadn’t before, and also in the same old ways that I always had. The ways that always made my heart smile. The ways that still do and still will make me remember him with love and admiration.

And I have a feeling I will continue to find relics of his life’s history, of the story of this man that we all loved, for many years to come. And I have a feeling—no, I know—that those findings, those precious memories will be laced together with laughter and love.

Over the past few days, I began that process of uncovering, of remembering who he was. And all of the people I spoke to—many of you are sitting right here in front of me today—told me many of the same things.

He was a great guy. He was fun. He was funny. We had some good times. We have wonderful memories. He was a prankster. He was generous to everyone he met, even when he didn’t have to be. He provided undying and unflagging and unquestioned support—financial and moral. He was willing to make fun of himself, but God forbid anyone poked fun at his loved ones. He bailed people out of trouble. He scolded them for it and never let them forget it, but he never held it against them.

He gave and gave and gave some more, and he still felt like it wasn’t quite enough.

We also shared his stories. We remembered some of our favorites and couldn’t remember some of our favorites. And through the process, we laughed. A lot. I think he would have wanted it that way.

I have two stories, in particular, that I would like to share with you all today.

The first marks an earlier stage in my grandfather’s journey, and it comes in the form of a joke.

There was a man walking along a cliff’s edge, too involved in himself and his own thoughts to realize how treacherously close he had come to this edge. He lost his footing and fell over. Hanging on for dear life, he looked to the heavens and cried out, “Can anyone hear me? Is anyone up there?”

And a great booming voice answered him, “Yes, my son.”

“Oh, thank GOD,” he cried. “Can you help me?”

The voice replied, “Yes, my son. Have faith. Let go.”

The man, still dangling above the precipice, considered this proposition for a moment. Then he asked the booming, faceless voice, “Um, excuse me, is there anyone else up there I could talk to?”

The second story is one he told at his brother’s grave, with his wife and his sister-in-law. I believe this is the story he would have wanted told today.

There was a very special ship being built for a very special purpose. It was to transport people who were loved, respected, and cherished by others from their homeland to a new land. Board by board, this ship was constructed, and day by day, its departure came closer.

When the day finally came, the people boarded the ship, one by one, two by two. They boarded the ship for their very special voyage. They went up to the deck and stood by the rail. Their friends and family, their loves and their lives, stood on the shore waving and smiling and crying and waving. The people on the ship stood on the deck and waved back at them.

As the ship moved out of sight, the people on shore wondered what they would do without the departed. How could they ever replace that hole they left behind? And as those friends and family, the loves and the lives, tried to figure it out, the ship was coming into port on another shore—their newest destination.

And the people on that new shore were waiting there, waving and smiling and crying and waving. And they were ready to welcome the passengers of the ship with open arms. The very special passengers of the very special ship traveled from one shore filled with love, across a very special horizon, to another shore filled with love.

I think my grandfather told that story then for a reason. He wanted to help and to comfort and to protect once again. I believe these are his words coming through me. I believe this is his wish for us—to be at peace, to be comforted, to remember him fondly, and to know that he will be ok.

My grandfather defined himself by his strength and perseverance, and it became more and more difficult for him in the end. He hated having to inconvenience anyone. For years he took care of himself and the people he loved. For years, he did it all himself. He held it together. He fixed it. He built it, even if the “it” he built wasn’t perfect, my grandfather was proud to have done it himself. The thing is, I only see perfection in those imperfections. In fact, that may be one of the most important lessons he taught me.

But through all those years, I’m not sure he ever got over having to let others help him. All those years, those times that I drove my grandparents to and from the doctors appointments and the hospitals and the procedures; the times I went shopping for them or picked up prescriptions; the times I pressed the nurses and doctors for more information; the times I told him that “it shouldn’t happen to someone as nice as him” and that “if I could, I would take the pain away”—the same things he used to tell me when I was a little girl, sniffling over a scraped knee; or, more importantly, the times I just sat and listened and talked and laughed; all those years, my grandfather lamented being a burden on me, on all of us that helped.

He didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, ever, not even when he had no other choice. He still didn’t want to rely on anyone else. His stubborn pride couldn’t let him accept his weakening body. His inner strength and will fought sickness until the end.

What he didn’t seem to understand was my free will. If I were truly inconvenienced, I wouldn’t have stayed. If I didn’t want to be there, I wouldn’t have gone. If I had somewhere to be that was more important than being right there with him, that’s where I would have been. But there was no such place. In fact, this wasn’t just something I wanted to do; this was something necessary for me. I needed to be with him. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if I missed this part. This was the part when I could give back. After all his years of protection, care, and service, I could finally return the favor. If I made him laugh just once, if I made him feel comfortable when he hurt just once, if I put his mind at ease even just a little bit for a little while, then all of the time he felt I was surrendering was worth it.

What he didn’t understand was how much he was giving me still, every minute, every second I spent with him.

And what I want him to understand now is how he protected us until the end. The strong, the stoic man spent the last years making sure we would all be ok. He gave us the time we needed to say goodbye; he showed us how to finally and gratefully surrender when the time is right.

He went down still telling stories and charming strangers and making all of us laugh. I will never forget the day he brought the house—or rather, the hospital—down telling one of his stories. The one about a parachute and a man with a stutter. Nurses and hospital workers packed into the tiny hospital room and the laughter rang through the hallways.

He showed us all the merits of both “tough” and “love,” and we will never forget it. I know I won’t.

Before I close, I need to turn the attention to my Gram for a moment. Through the years, but especially in the end, we were privileged to witness the tenderness between my grandfather and grandmother. Gramps referred to her in many ways: Polly, Dear, and even Cutie, which I always thought was reserved for me, but then quickly realized the truth. She was the original and only true cutie to him. He would also, quite simply, call her his bride. She never aged for him. Their love never aged. It went through different stages, sure. But for fifty-six years, they were a team. They supported each other, they finished each other’s sentences, they lived with and loved each other.

In the end, they were very careful with their goodbyes. Every single time she had to leave him, he would make sure to kiss her and let her know how much he loved her, how much he appreciated everything she was doing for him, everything she had ever done for him. I watched my grandmother tortured by every moment he was tortured. I watched her try with all her might to help him maintain the control that had always defined him. She lived for him, day in and day out, and he knew it. If it was possible, I think he loved her more than ever in the end.

And, Gram, I believe that his love will never, ever leave you. I believe you can go inside yourself whenever you need to and feel Grandpa’s love. I believe that for you and Grandpa, “till death do us part” is just a formality. It is only about the physicality of your relationship. When you miss him and when you need him, just remember him in your heart and soul. He will never really leave you.

Today, even the heavens are weeping for my grandfather. But somehow, I don’t think they are tears of sorrow or of grief. I believe that these are tears of joy. In many traditions, water cleanses, it purifies. When it rains, we should remember the story of the ship crossing the ocean.

In our limited, worldly view and experience, it looks like Russ is leaving us today. But in reality, he’s just moving on to the next place. He is bringing joy and laughter to the folks on the other side. I imagine him on the deck, as the ship heads for the horizon. He is standing on his own two feet, for the first time in a very long time. His belly is bulging again, just a little bit. He is wearing his baby blue fishing hat that he always wore, a short-sleeved striped polo, and he’s waving to us. He is at peace. He is ok.

And when he gets to the other side, he’ll see all those that went before him. He’ll see his parents, my great-grandma and great-grandfather Conti, his sister, his brother, and all the friends that went before him. He’ll saunter on over, thinking of the first joke or the first story he’ll tell. He’ll give a sturdy handshake or a big hug, and he’ll say, “Well. Here we are.”

I imagine him there right now, sitting around a kitchen table like the one over on Country Lane, surrounded by loved ones, looking down on us sitting here right now remembering him. I imagine him sitting there, saying the same thing we’ve heard him say time and time again: “It’s always nice when the family gets together.”

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On Tuesday, September 23rd, 2008, in the early hours of the morning, my mother and father, my grandmother, and my Auntie Ann and Uncle Joe went over to Manchester Hospital to see my grandfather’s body before it was transported to the funeral home. They weren’t sure what to expect when they walked into his room. But as they did, they were amazed at what they saw. On my grandfather’s face, where we had seen so much pain and suffering in the past few weeks, was a gentle, peaceful smile. It’s true. My Gramps was smiling in the end.

And as we were heading to the church in the limo this morning, to celebrate his life and to say our final goodbye’s, my grandmother said, “Maybe he was trying to tell us something. Maybe he was trying to let us know he was ok.”

I think my father said it best, “Dad had the last laugh.”

Even in his last moments, my grandfather was protecting us. He was trying, one last time, to make sure we’d be ok.