"Two important people came from Hannibal, MO: Mark Twain and Me." -Wayne Turner
There are pictures of me with my grandparents as an infant, but I have no actual memories of those interactions. The first time I remember meeting them was at my brother's wedding when I was eighteen.
Let's just say it didn't go as planned.
The wedding itself? Flawless—except for a large portion of my brother's front tooth falling out the night before. But that's a story for another time. (Takes out pen, licks tip, writes "Matt's 'troubles' with #8" in field notebook; puts pen away.)
I didn't have a relationship with my grandfather until after my grandmother had passed. She had a real knack for keeping the family at arm's length from one another while she was alive. But my grandfather made a vow to love her in good times and bad, in sickness and health, for better or worse, until death did they part.
Now, I know most of you don't know my grandfather very well yet, but if you keep reading, I think you'll get the sense that this was a man for whom vows were sacred. Binding. Unshakable.
So it was with his marriage.
Grandma had—and I'm quoting my dad here—"a shit ton of skeletons." And Grandpa accepted the responsibility of managing them. She was an alcoholic with mental health struggles and an addiction to painkillers, just for good measure. She required around-the-clock care, and Grandpa was happy to provide it.
I never asked him outright, but I'd bet real money he'd have said he loved her right up to the very end and probably forever after.
That's who my Grandpa was.
If he loved you, there was nothing you could do to make him stop. It's not that he couldn't see your faults—he could. In fact, he'd be the first to tell you if you were being an asshole.
After Grandma passed, it felt like we were given another shot at being a family. I remember sitting in my grandparents' house—a place that felt totally foreign to me—listening as my dad and his siblings shared stories and began to find the common threads between them.
After the funeral, Grandpa made a promise to make things right. And I've never seen anyone make better on a promise in my life.
Built for Adventure
GPa, as I lovingly called him, made his first trip out to visit my husband and me that very same summer. A two-and-a-half-hour trip took him closer to six. He got lost, and I got worried. But I didn't know him well enough yet to understand there was no need to worry—GPa had at least nine lives.
I don't know what kind of life he lived with Grandma, but the kind of life he lived after was filled to the brim with adventure, chaos, and love. I know without so much as a corner of a shadow of a doubt that GPa lived his life to the very fullest. And he loved his family, friends, and perfect strangers alike with the full capacity of his heart.
The very heart that betrayed him in the end.
His doctor estimated he had a year or less when his aneurysm was diagnosed. He was given explicit instructions to avoid any strenuous activities because this thing was a ticking time bomb.
GPa didn't listen. He was stubborn, sure. But more than that, GPA loved living.
So he lived.
He'd throw open the curtains each morning and shout, "Here I am, world!"
And if the world shouted back, "Adventure is calling!" GPa would throw on some jeans and a T-shirt, grab his backpack, and get out there to find it.
There wasn't an adventure that wasn't worth having.
I lost track of time, but several years passed between the day they found that aneurysm and the day it finally took him.
GPa was 93 when he passed on January 28, 2025. And if it hadn't been for that damn aneurysm, who knows how much more time we might have had with him. That's the kind of man he was—93 years, and it still wasn't nearly enough for those he left behind.
What was his secret, you ask?
Well, he ate his Froot Loops with half-and-half and several spoonfuls of sugar, then followed it up with a daily lunch of canned tamales wrapped in white bread. His cardiologist would probably tell you these choices did not contribute to GPa's longevity, but honestly? I don't think he could prove it.
GPa stayed active and vibrant well into his eighties. He was 82 before he finally gave up his motorcycle. And only then because his wife made him. He took daily walks with friends, played pickleball, medaled (repeatedly) in the Senior Olympics, hosted regular card games at his house, and bowled every chance he got.
GPa Goes Hollywood
GPa was a lifelong, die-hard St. Louis Cardinals fan. He loved to talk about setting pins for Stan Musial when he worked at the bowling alley as a boy. But he got a firsthand glimpse of fame himself when his oldest son landed the title role in the inaugural season of The Golden Bachelor.
When the local news got wind of it, they reached out for an interview—and GPa was more than happy to oblige. If you haven't seen the clip, do yourself a favor and watch it:
📺 Interview Link
My favorite part? The bit where he talks about how ugly baby Gerry was.
"When he was born, he was one of the ugliest kids they'd ever seen. If you were standing in front of the window to view the kids and somebody said, 'Which one's yours?' I'd say, 'Well, just look for the ugliest one.'"
I had to laugh—not just because it's hilarious, but because I'd heard GPa tell variations of this story many times. He and Grandma had long agreed that their darlings were not the prettiest peaches in the peck, at least in infancy. In another interview around the same time, GPa was quoted as saying:
"My babies were all ugly, but they all got to be good-looking."
For the record, he also said:
"We raised four kids, and I didn't have to get any of them out of jail. I'm a lucky man. I'll tell you what, I'm one of the most proud people. I'm proud of all my kids."
And he truly was. GPa was damn proud of his kids, even if they were the ugliest babies in the nursery.
Every Thursday evening during Gerry's Golden Bachelor season, GPa hosted a watch party at his house. While the rest of the family was rolling our eyes and trying to keep our heads down, GPa was beaming, thrilled to be part of the excitement. I don't think there's anything his kids could have done that wouldn't have made him proud, as long as they were happy with the doing it.
Still, GPa was quick to point out, "Really, the TV thing has nothing to do with how proud I am."
Pride & Pastry
He was proud of all his children, grandchildren, greats, and great-greats. GPa had a lot to be proud of— and enough pride to fill the stands at Sportsman's Park and Busch Stadium.
GPa also took great pride in his work as a baker. After graduating from the American Institute of Baking in Chicago, he rose through the ranks—from baker to manager and eventually to production superintendent, overseeing operations in several plants.
His baking career took him from Hannibal, Missouri, to Chicago, to Ottumwa, Iowa, to Fargo, North Dakota, and finally to Virginia Beach, Virginia. When he retired in 1996, he and Grandma moved back home to Hannibal.
In retirement, GPa took a job at County Market, where he worked alongside a former Hannibal mayor. GPa was, without question, the most popular employee at the store. I made that up—but if you knew him, you'd believe it. Even if it was the former mayor bagging groceries.
"I was a lucky man; I enjoyed my work for 50 years. I never once hated to go to work."
I believe this about my grandfather—not just because he said it, but because he wasn't in the business of doing things he didn't want to do. If he pursued an education in baking after years on the job, it's because he genuinely loved the work. And if he took a job at County Market in retirement, it's because he enjoyed the groceries. Or the people. Or maybe just needed a break from Grandma. But you get my point.
At his gravesite, my mom told a story about the first time she met GPa. She said the very first thing he did, after giving her a big hug, was take her straight to the bakery to show her what he did for a living. He was beaming with pure, jubilant pride.
Now, I love my job. But if one of my boys brings a girl home, the first thing I'm not going to do is show her my scalers. No, it's going to be telling her he was neutered as a puppy and to kindly move along.
Remembering GPa
GPa passed in late January, but he'd given strict instructions: wait until spring to gather in Hannibal with his remains. He wanted each of his kids to say a little something, and anyone else who felt moved to speak was welcome. It wasn't hard to see the impact GPa had made on everyone present at his gravesite. And I was delighted to hear their stories.
Gerry started with a few stories about their motorcycle trips and the goofy stunts GPa would pull out on the road. Like the time his hand slipped on the throttle, and he found himself unintentionally spinning out into chaotic donuts in a gravel parking lot. Once he got the bike under control, he hopped off, threw out his arms, and said, "Bet you can't do that!"
Dad talked about how good his father was at making his kids feel loved. Then he shared a recent voicemail GPa had left him.
"Son, I'm calling your cell phone, and you didn't answer. Do you know why? Because you're an asshole!"
Later that day, when they connected, GPa made sure Dad had heard the entire message.
"Did you hear me call you an asshole?"
Then he chuckled with that irresistible, delighted little laugh of his.
GPa had the kind of sense of humor that made this voicemail endearing, not horrifying. But also, you knew he meant it with every ounce of love in his heart. GPa loved his family. But he also knew we were a hot mess.
Brenda spoke about his love of tomfoolery. He was always goofing around and pulling pranks. One time, he called to say he'd cut off a finger with a circular saw. It took a while to convince her this wasn't one of his jokes, and indeed, he only had nine fingers now.
And then there was the time she raced to the ER after a call that GPa had rolled the motor home. She burst into the room to find him covered in blood, looking pretty beat up, with an ear hanging precariously from his head. She must've looked horror-stricken because GPa was quick to reassure her, "I don't know what all of the fuss is about; I'm perfectly fine!"
(For the record, both finger and ear were successfully reattached, and GPa left this world with all of his appendages.)
Darrin's story pulled no punches.
Turns out, his girlfriend got the full GPa experience the first time she met him. GPa had built a "man cave" on the back of his house, and he was very proud of it. Just like he'd done with my mom all those years ago, he pulled Darrin's girlfriend into the Cave to show off his treasures.
When the excitement died down, GPa said—completely unprompted—that he hadn't married his second wife (the woman currently sitting in the recliner in the other room) for the sex.
My grandfather had no skeletons. But if he had, they'd have been standing out in the yard, waving at traffic, not hidden away in some dark, dank closet.
My favorite story of the day was shared by GPa's brother-in-law, Butch.
One day, Butch was alone with nothing to do. The carnival was in town, so he wandered over and met a man who claimed he could guess anyone's first name. Butch handed over the money only to be told his name was John. Disappointed, he walked home, running into his sister and GPa on the way.
"Why so glum, chum?" is not actually what my grandfather said that day, but it was something equally inquisitive and concerned.
Butch told them what had happened, adding that he felt like a fool and a nickel lighter to boot!
"Oh, John, it sounds to me like you had a great day!"
"All these years," Brenda said, grinning as she squeezed Butch's shoulders, "and I never knew that's why he always called you John."
I wish we could've stayed at the gravesite forever, swapping stories like that. But it was breezy that day, and you could almost hear GPa's voice whispering, "Go on now, that's enough. Get back to living."
The House that Bread Built
When my dad was a kid, GPa bought a piece of land in Ottumwa, Iowa, to build a home for his growing family. He worked all day at Lowenburg Bakery and all evening on that land, constructing a three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-story house with his own two hands.
The only part he contracted out was the basement—poured to his exact specifications, of course.
It was in that basement, by the way, that my uncle once found a duck waddling around when he went down to do some laundry one day.
Apparently, a customer had found themselves up a creek without a paddle—or in need of bread without a dollar, as it were—and GPa agreed to accept duck as payment.
Did GPa need a duck? No. Had he always secretly dreamed of owning waterfowl? Highly doubtful.
No, GPa just saw a person in need of bread and accepted a duck in return.
An act of humanity.
Imagine that.
The Last Word
My Grandfather and Mark Twain were born and raised in the same small Mississippi River Town of Hannibal, MO. As I wandered through those streets and along the riverbank, I could easily imagine my grandfather as a boy—having his own adventures, spinning his own tales, just like the boys in Twain's books. That's what life is like for people like GPa—adventure is hiding around every corner.
Mark Twain himself once said, "The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."
It comforts me to believe that GPa wasn't afraid to die because he was never once afraid to live.
Add comment
Comments