by Rodney Kadura

I have many fond memories of my Grandpa Frerich. I remember once when I was very young. My cousin Adam and I were sitting on the fence "helping" Grandpa pin calves. Now Grandpa was truly gracious and respective to every single person he met, but that same kindness was not always extended to his cows. In this particular instance, those poor cows were getting an ear full. I remember Adam leaning over to me. "Did you hear what Grandpa said?" he asked. "Yep" I replied in an equally muffled whisper. Let me just say that it was shocking stuff to virgin ears. And if those cows had understood English, I'm sure they would have been a bit shocked too. I tell this story only because in all the years I knew my Grandpa, this episode was the worst thing I ever heard him say or do. In fact, there�s nothing else even on the radar screen. That, in itself, speaks volumes about what kind a man he was.

Grandpa was the kind of man that if you asked him for help, you got it. He was also the type of man that even if you didn't ask for help, you still got it. He was always "doing" for others. I can remember that rainy night I put my truck through Curtis Osborn's fence. The next morning it was Grandpa who was up at the crack of dawn helping me patch fence. Moreover, he was right there beside me when I knocked on Curtis' door to tell him what I had done. Not waiting in the truck. Not two feet behind me. Right there beside me with a hand on my shoulder. After I had fumbled out my apology Grandpa just nodded his head at Curtis and said "Don't worry about your fence Curtis. We'll make it as good as new." And we did. It was probably even better than before. And that was Grandpa just being Grandpa.

Sometimes I'd go up the road to visit him and Grandma as the day was winding down just to say hi. Frequently I would walk in on them as they were praying the Rosary together in their living room—something they did daily. It always made such an impression on me. The Rosary was such an important part of their daily devotion, but not so important that they would not happily stop to visit. Grandpa would put his beads on the end table next to the lamp in an ash tray that I�m sure had never seen an ash. Grandma would hold onto hers, presumably to mark their place so that when we were done visiting they could pick up where they left off.

Sometimes, during these visits, we'd talk for half an hour or more. I remember one visit in particular. I asked Grandpa about his service in World War II. He recounted a story about being on leave in San Francisco before shipping out for the south Pacific. He said that he was quite hungry and had been looking for a place to eat. There simply weren't that many options for him though. It was a Friday, and back then every Friday was a day of abstinence. What was a guy to do? He eventually came across a street vendor selling hamburgers. They looked so good. So Grandpa walked up to the vendor. "Sir I'd like a cheeseburger," he said, "…hold the meat." The street vendor was certain he had heard it wrong. "What was that bub?" he asked. "A cheeseburger," my Grandpa repeated slowly with a smile, "bun and cheese only". Now it probably wasn't the world's first grilled cheese sandwich but it may well have been the first ever meatless cheeseburger. I don't know why that story sticks with me, but it does. Maybe it is because it illustrates a sense of personal devotion in him that I clearly saw in his later life. I could imagine him doing exactly as he said. It was clear that he always carried his faith with him. It was evident in everything that he said and everything that he did. Tiny little things—things that I�m sure he had no idea that anyone noticed—but I drew inspiration from them. During my own stint in the service, his example of faith was a motivating factor in my life. While I was away, I never once missed Mass if I could help it. It was at a time in my life when I wasn't necessarily convicted about attending Mass. I went even if I didn't particularly feel like going because I knew that's what he would have done.

Always before I left their house, I'd go to hug my Grandma and shake my Grandpa's hand. I would always press my Grandpa's hand hard and in my mind I would always recite the same words: "Do you know how much I love you?" I never once said them out loud, but I think maybe he knew. Grandma and Grandpa had a love and respect for one another that is rare today, perhaps even rare back then. I asked my Grandma once while my Grandpa was still alive, "Grandma, do you and Grandpa ever argue?" I was genuinely curious. I had never seen them quarrel, not even once. "Well we might sometimes get a little short with each other," she replied barely having to think about it. "But I don't thing we've ever argued." I believed it of course. As unthinkable as such a thing might sound coming from anyone else, I certainly believed it in their case.

I can remember another conversation I had with my Grandma, this one in the hospital after Grandpa's stroke. We were there just waiting … waiting for this man—whom I loved with all my heart—to die. Above the din of his labored breaths my Grandma told me that she and Grandpa had had a really great last month together. A few weeks earlier, they had attended the Sacrament of Reconciliation together as they frequently did. After saying her penance, Grandma gathered her purse cueing Grandpa that she was ready to go when he was. On this particular instance, Grandpa stopped her. "Why don't we sit for a while," he suggested. And so they did. They sat quietly in the church together about an hour. A few days later, Grandpa was sitting on his front porch looking out to the pasture where his cows were quietly grazing. Grandma was in her chair beside him. "I've had a good life" he confided to her. Grandma said she didn't think anything of it at the time. It was only when she looked back on that great last month together that it struck her how perfectly scripted it was. I don't recall the exact words, but I think she called it a "gift from God". Yes Grandma, I believe it was just that.