This evening, Christmas Eve, I got word that one of my best friends passed away.  Walter Morton Soule, my grandfather, slipped into the deepest sleep at the age of 91. The picture above was taken of me with my grandparents during a visit with them in September of this year. 

For those of you who never knew him, from my biased perspective, it was your loss.  He was an amazing man.  The picture of an old fashioned New England man, he loved the outdoors, cribbage, and whiskey.

From the time I was very young I remember doing things with him that in retrospect weren’t the smartest, but they certainly were fun.  From my mother finding us shingling his garage roof (I was about 7), to climbing down rock cliffs near Crescent Beach with an old nylon cord tied under my arms, to going for hikes and letting him feed me acorns and other disgusting natural goodies.  I remember sliding down frozen roads on old runner sleds with him, watching him play golf with true wooden clubs, and just the two of us going skiing.  The man should be in the culinary hall of fame for his blueberry pancakes – I’m not sure how he made them, but they were amazing.

Born on November 4, 1920 in Westbrook to Arthur and Rizpah Soule, Walter was one of five children, four of them boys.  The sons were a “rather wild bunch” and were known around town for their exploits.  From using stolen dynamite to remove obstructions at a swimming hole to electrifying a toilet seat in a “favorite” neighbor’s outhouse.  Creativity was in abundance.  Walter was a pilot in the Civil Air Patrol during World War II and gave seaplane tours to sightseers in Raymond and other areas in lake country.  He went on to a career in sales, where many would say his ability to mix honesty and bullsh!t would become his hallmark.

But to me, he was one of the most amazing men ever.  He was stern and commanded respect, but he never lost the twinkle of boyish mischief in his eyes.  It seemed like he knew everyone and had been everyplace.  There wasn’t a time when didn’t have a story at the ready that would make you cry with laughter.  And now he makes me cry for another reason, I miss him already.

His strength was remarkable.  He battled kidney failure for years and drove himself to dialysis three days a week until the last couple of months. Never one to back to away from a challenge he had an undeniable will to live. But last week he called and told me he had become tired and that he could no longer bear for his mind to watch his body continue to fail.  He was ready.  It was his time.  My eyes filled immediately, torn between selfish sorrow and a premature but overwhelming sense of loss.  Of course he followed up his statements by repeating a threat from months earlier about not crying for him, but this time there were tears in his eyes too, so I took that as a free pass.  He told me not to feel sorry for him, but rather to feel badly for all the people who be mourning the loss of such a great man.  Forever the comedian.

The next morning I spoke with him again before he went to hospice, and apparently he had spent the evening drinking with my mother, singing at the tops of his lungs, and trying to drunk dial people he wanted to share a shot with before he took his next journey.  At the end of the conversation he told me that he left me a shot in the bottle and that he would make sure that I got it.

I wasn’t able to make it back to Maine in time, because like everything else in his life, when he decided it was his time, it was his time.  My memories of him will last forever, and I am grateful to have 35 years worth.  Some of the greatest where in celebrating Christmas Eve, so it just makes sense.

There will be no service, he didn’t want that.  He would want us each to remember him in our way.  Not to be forgotten, he told me how I had to remember him, but that will stay between him and me.

So long Grampy, you will be missed, loved, and toasted with that last shot.