penfield | I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

Today my family celebrated the life of my grandfather, who passed away last week at the age of 86. It's still sort of unclear to me what he died of, besides having lived to the age of 86. But it is somehow appropriate that his passing is obscured by mystery, since that is how he chose to live much of his life.

He was a deeply private man, my father's father, even toward his family. There is plenty of evidence that he was a bright and witty man but he was not the type to boast of his accomplishments or draw attention with his personality. The record shows that he was a highly decorated veteran of World War II but he was stubbornly reluctant to share those stories. He was obviously capable of profound love and affection but you really had to be paying attention to recognize it.

My grandfather commanded my respect, if not my outright adoration, because for all his accomplishments and faults he raised a son who himself became an amazing and devoted father. (A father who, for all his accomplishments, loathes being recognized on this Web site. Please don't tell him you read this here.)

For its part, the funeral mass and brief military ceremony were tasteful and elegant. My aunt gave a beautiful eulogy and my cousin sang a lovely and mournful rendition of Amazing Grace. I gave a reading -- the second letter from Paul to the Corinthians -- which, despite a twinge of agnostic shame, I came to appreciate as an admirable statement of faith. At the interment site, my grandfather was given the honor of a 21-gun salute. (Incidentally, this is a misnomer. There are only seven rifles in a 21 gun salute, each firing three shots. They should call it a 21-bullet salute. The children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren were each given the token of a rifle shell, which I intend to cherish in the event that I can get it past the airport screeners.)

Such is the boldly painted pageantry of death.

I came home this weekend not simply to pay my respects to my grandfather, but to find out more about him. And I have learned more in the past week than in the previous 30 years. There are things about him I now see in myself. There are things he was that I want to be and there were things about him that I want to learn from.

Perhaps more importantly, I am here to bask in the warmth (the relative warmth, naturally, as the temperature is hovering in single digits) of family. More specifically, I am here to be with my father, as he grieves, and in that process know him as deeply as I can.

I hope I still have many years with my parents, and until the end comes I want to absorb not only their traits and tendencies but also their wisdom and their experiences. Love is too rare and important to be treated as a mystery.

Rest in peace, Grampa.