When I met you in 1972 (at the tender age of 9 years), I thought you were pretty scary. I was impressed by the sonorous voice with which you expressed your opinion on everything and anyone from the easy chair which you occupied as though it were a throne.
I soon learned that, at least as far as we kids were concerned, your voice was much more bark than bite.
One of my fondest memories is of sitting with you in one of those summers in the early ’70s, watching Judge Sirica preside over the Watergate hearings, accompanied by your critical and sometimes very funny running commentary. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I think that those times spent with you played a fundamental role in my interest in politics as an adult.
I remember your garden, your compost, you growing tomatoes and corn in the backyard.
I will never forget the refuge you and Grandma C. gave me when I fled my first marriage. I was overwhelmed and deeply moved by your protective instincts when you offered to “lock this house down like Fort Knox if you want me to” when that husband was about to make an appearance. I also remember the trust you placed in me when you loaned me the money for a transatlantic flight home.
Thank you for everything, Grandpa C.
There is a big place in my heart for you.
Rest in peace.