The 18 grandkids would argue about who they loved most, we were all certain it was us. For those of you fortunate enough to have grandparents who make you feel like you’re the favorite, as if you were the most precious, special person in your large Mormon family, when they’re gone — it’s devastating. 

My aunt, my uncles and my mom are devastated to say goodbye to their dad, as they got him longer than most. As I tried to comfort my mom, she sobbed as she said, “I don’t have parents anymore.” The eventual reality of every person on this planet stung until I could hastily stuff it away in a tiny box in the back of my brain, like a sad safe deposit box.

It was only three years ago I was writing about how Grandpa Tom was still lifting weights, arm wrestling and walking laps at the Newgate Mall in preparation for what he called “a good death.” When it came calling, he left swiftly and with comfort as the steady center of the Musgrave family who really lived for 92 years. Grandma was the warmth, Grandpa the exuberance.

Each of my siblings, my cousins, even my “adopted” cousin from Taiwan who lived with my grandparents for a stretch, and myself, all had a unique relationship with him that allowed us to feel valued and loved. It takes a rare person to make others feel this way without trying. If Grandpa loathed you, you’d never know it. I sure didn’t inherit that gene.

He was on a continuous journey for enlightenment. He was fearless in his questions, spurred on by the books he read like he’d found water in the desert. He was thoughtful, and once he found a belief, he would unabashedly change course, making nearly every discussion I had with him interesting, sometimes heartbreaking. He once told me he wanted to live in his dreams because it was there he was back with my grandma. It was guttural to hear his pain, but I’m envious of the certitude of knowing he was loved and brave enough to go forward without it.

Grandparents love us during the warts of teenage mania and our perceived unforgivable sins, welcoming us back when we’re ready to return. My husband is 6-foot-1, his Grandma Mae, is 5-foot-3 and in her late 80s. When she talks to him, she still grabs Brian at his elbow as if he’s still a toddler ready to bolt. Mae cranes her neck straight up to get eye contact from that big lug grandson, and it’s those moments I can see my husband as the freckled menace he once was. He knows he can tease, push the envelope as the smart ass he is, and Grandma Mae will love him all the more for it. She was there from the moment he existed and it won’t last forever.

Tom Musgrave wasn’t even really named Tom. I was probably a teenager when I learned his given name was Clifton and his birthday wasn’t actually in September, but Dec. 26, which is why he decided to celebrate some other time. I think I was just a dumb, unobservant kid because it wasn’t until my aunt and uncle’s 35th birthday, where they each had a cake with the same number, I figured out they were twins.

Memories of him and his best buddy, Dutch, taking me to the ZCMI Tiffin Room for a hot fudge Sunday, where they knew the name of every waitress, crop up when I review our time together. He and Grandma somehow made it to every pointless dance recital, horrendous musical, band concert and high school graduation for his plentiful grandkids, even sporting his Paul Newman grin in pictures as if he’d had a good time. 

It was in fourth grade my family vacationed in Puerto Vallarta with the grandparents. As I splashed in the pool, a beer drinking tournament started a few feet away. It was a true shock when I saw my grandpa up there chugging a Corona, taking second place. Don’t worry, I immediately headed to their room to report to Grandma. I should have known then he had a whole other life before he became our grandpa, but I wouldn’t get to hear those stories until I’d lived a little longer.

It was a couple of decades later, when I moved a mile down the road and helped take care of my grandma after her stroke, Grandpa turned into an actual friend. We spanned the continuum of discussion from books to regrets, from faith to fears. When Grandma was gone, we hung out just about every week taking walks through North Ogden, Farr West, even traversing around Antelope Island, but his favorite walks were always through Plain City. When the sidewalk ended, we found ourselves someplace with a cold beer, his favorite haunt being Rock Bottom Lounge. When it got harder to take him out on my own, we’d just visit at his house, reminiscing and theorizing what’s next. I even taught him beer pong.

Grandpa’s real laugh, a little halting and paired with a bonafide Chesire grin, was truly an achievement; I knew I must have said something really witty. He was quick with a joke, a wry one-liner or ironic question, but he also didn’t hesitate to share an authentic thought he’d ruminated on for days. With him, I always had an ally, a hero, someone with old-school loyalty and a sincere heart he showcased through song.

A month ago, my grandfather gave me a folder. Inside was nearly every column I’d written since 2010 — that moment was invaluable knowing I had at least two people who were always in my corner. I have no grandparents left but it’s through Grandpa Tom and Grandma Sheron, I know the exact kind I want to be. I want my grandkids to be as lucky as I was. If your grandparents are still around — visit, call, and hopefully you can find comfort in knowing someone here has known you from the start and still loves you.

Meg Sanders worked in broadcast journalism for over a decade but has since turned her life around to stay closer to home in Ogden. Her three children keep her indentured as a taxi driver, stylist and sanitation worker. In her free time, she likes to read, write, lift weights and go to concerts with her husband of 18 years.