But he remains with us in some tangible, some intangible ways.
His home is still visible from my living room window. The deck that holds chairs we stained. He liked things painted, trim, neat, done.
Al must mean orderly.
His four-wheeler that transported him from his home to ours is there. He didn't walk well.
Hello. Dinner. Just visit. Watch us do... whatever.
His big window where he watched our kids boating on the pond. Skating on the pond. Swimming in the pond. Hiking around the pond. He loved to watch the kids. They were active. He wasn't so much the past few years.
Al must mean friendly.
Our homes are separated by a gift. A cabin that he built. It was in his woods and he gave it to me.
Gave it to me.
By far the most unique gift I have ever received.
Al must mean generous.
We moved it in between our homes. He loved to see us use it.
It has a red door. Some say a red door means "welcome." We were always invited in at Al's home.
Al must mean welcome.
He loved to play cribbage. My son played with him. And loved him.
He was like a grandfather to my son.
Al must mean grand.
He was a WWII Veteran. Stories about his days as a gunner. So many missions. Oh, the stories.
He loved his country. Served. Remembered. Silently honored America every day by flying a flag. It's still there even though he isn't.
Al must mean honor.
Al must mean so many admirable things.
Because he was. Admired.
And now, missed.
Missed terribly.
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