Wednesday Weekly Gratitude Post #4

This is a bit of a tough one.  The prompt this week was to write about "a family member".  So, I've already written a bit about hubby, and covered a lot of others in my post about family, but to single out a single family member was proving to be a little hard.

After much thoughtful deliberation, I finally decided on my grandfather.  Granny has gotten a few posts on here over the years, so I figured, gramps was the next best thing.

My grandpa, Max McEvitt Court, was born on August 5, 1928 in Raymond, Alberta, Canada.  Except for a year spent in B.C., my grandpa lived his entire life in that town.  He was one of 21 children.  He married my grandma, Jeanette Robinson shortly after his 20th birthday.

They went on to have 6 children together, and also adopted my uncle, Randy, bringing the total to 5 sons and 2 daughters.

There is a lot of things I know about my grandfather, but I want to specifically write this post about what he meant to me.

My grandpa was my first real "father figure".  I adored him my entire life.  Without a doubt, he is the single most influential person in my life. He taught me many things from how to weed a garden and shuck peas, he gave me my love of crossword and jigsaw puzzles, he had an amazing mind for numbers,  and he showed me what it truly means to have a deep and abiding love of the Lord.  His faith always amazed me.  

He taught me about some refined cuisine such as syrup and sugar on bread (hey, don't knock it until you try it).  He taught me some great old songs, like "Ol' Shep" , "Ten Knots in the Devil's Tail" and loved it when I sang "Danny Boy" for him.  He instilled in me a love of learning, patience, and what family truly means. He was a warm, loving, firm, and straightforward man.  He was a man who was still riding his bike and pitching in softball well into his 60s.  He was a hero.....he was my hero.

Near the end of his life, my grandfather slowly started to fade away.  He was no longer the man I remembered, and often times he didn't remember me, or anyone else for that matter.  But I went and visited him the summer before he passed away, and before I left to return home, knowing that it was likely the last time I would see him, I kissed him on the cheek and told him I loved him.  He grabbed me by the hand, and patted it softly.  His last words to me were, "You're a good girl sweetheart.  I'm proud of you".

It doesn't get much better than that.