My father’s dad died years before I was born and only exists for me in stories my dad tells. But Mom's dad was always around. For the first twelve years of my life, we lived in the same small town, then for six months in the same house while our new one was being built, then only a short car ride away before I left for college and started down my own path. 

My grandfather attended my little league games and band concerts, spent birthdays and holidays with me, was there for my graduations, danced at Chris and my wedding, and lived long enough to hold both of my kids. We fished together, listened to Pirate baseball games on the radio, and sometimes made a trip into the city to catch them live. He played the game well enough that they invited him to join the team as a young man, but he had to pass because he had to support his family. At that time, being underground in a coal mine paid more than being above ground playing baseball. His formal education ended in the eighth grade, but he was a lifelong reader. His books and willingness to share them with me sparked my interest in history. Some of those books sit on my shelves—a few with notes written inside from him to me. 

After he left the mines, my grandfather became the janitor for the local Catholic parish, responsible for taking care of the church, rectory, convent, and school and driving the bus that gathered the school kids from around town each morning and took them home every afternoon. He held the job well into his 70s. Growing up, I sometimes accompanied him while he worked. One of my biggest thrills was being allowed to clip his massive key ring on my belt—a joy second only to being allowed to use them to open the doors myself. 

He was a kind and gentle man. Big in height and heart. He didn't have much, but he was willing to share what he had. I think of him often. His pictures hang on the walls of my office and den, and I frequently wear the wedding band he wore when he was a much younger and thinner man that my grandmother gave me after he died. 

I wish my grandsons could have known him. But he would be 112 today. An unlikely age for anyone to reach, let alone a man with black lung and other health issues. We were blessed with him for many years, though. He lived to age 89, and his mind was sharp to the end. 

I have many things in common with my grandfather. A love for dogs. A taste for beer, cigars, kielbasa, and sauerkraut. The Pirates are still my team, and I always leave the house with a hat, a pocketful of pens, and something to write on. And there's always a book close by. But the thing we share I treasure most is the name Grandpap. I chose it to honor him and keep him close. 

It's music every time I hear Carter say it. And I look forward to Hudson saying it too. Carter never had any problems pronouncing it. If Hudson does, we have a temporary fallback.

He can call me Carl.