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Robert MacDonald Deary

September 3, 1920 - March 27, 1993

An honest man here lies at rest,
As e'er God with his Image blest:
A friend of man, the friend of truth,
The friend of age and guide of youth;
Few hearts like his-with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so informed:
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.
- Robbie Burns

I still think of my grandfather often, and I usually smile or laugh when I do. So many of my childhood memories revolve around him. A fishing lure named Charlie. Dirty, horrid looking homemade cookies eaten out of love. "One, two, six" and "we are the people".

That fishing lure must have been expensive. Charlie was long, made of shiny green metal and had joints that allowed him to bend. I was so happy to be permitted to use him. My grandfather never yelled when I lost him on the rocky bottom of the river. He only comforted me.

I learned to bake from my grandmother, along with my sister and cousin. We would run down the hallway when we were done, clutching our wonderful cookies in our hands for Poppa to have. He'd take these ugly little baked goods from us, eat them, and tell us how good they were. My father remembers telling him over and over to just save them for later, so he could secretly throw them out. That dough had been rolled, played with, and dropped many times before it had come anywhere near an oven. They must have tasted horrible.

I remember one of his birthday parties quite clearly. I was still fairly young. He had a brightly coloured gift-wrapping bow stuck to the top of his bald head. My cousins and I were gathered around him and his birthday cake. He began counting in the family style of one, two, six, but before he could reach six, one of my cousins blew the candles out. I'm sure my face began to crumple. Before I could cry, he announced that he hadn't had a chance to blow any out. He relit the candles so we could all try again.

I always refer to him as my grandfather. In reality, he was my step-grandfather. My grandmother met him in the early 1970s and they were married in May of 1974. He didn't only marry a woman with children, he married a woman with grandchildren as well. I was the first grandchild born to the family after they were married. He was a key figure in my life from the very beginning, and also in the lives of my younger sister and cousin as well. He even named my little sister when she was born.

I always felt so secure in his love. I had the feeling that he believed I was near perfect and could do anything I ever dreamed. He had so much confidence and pride in me. That faith helped me later on when I moved 15 hours away from home to advance my education. I knew I could do it, partly because Poppa had believed in me.

It's hard to see someone beyond the role they play in your life. To me, he was my beloved Poppa. It wasn't until his funeral that I learned more about the man he had been.

He had been playing professional soccer in Scotland when World War II broke out. Only 19, he joined up and was assigned to British Signal Core. He was sent to North Africa and was responsible for laying communication wires, often behind enemy lines. It was a dangerous job and the other side captured him twice.

The Germans caught him the first time and held him in a foxhole. He leaned down to light a cigarette when a shell went off. He looked up to find both his captors and his fellow prisoners dead. He got up and walked away.

The Italians caught him the second time. It was a dark, moonless night and incredibly hard to see. The prisoners formed a line, with a guard at the front and a guard at the back. Everyone held onto a rope to follow the path. As they walked, one by one the prisoners let go and disappeared into the darkness.

Out of the 210 original members of his company, only 3 survived.

He died fighting another enemy, this time called cancer. He never gave up. For years, it was easy for me to have hope, because he was always optimistic about it. He still went swimming nearly every day. He went dancing with my grandmother. Family functions were as important as always. I remember joking around about chemotherapy and how it seemed to be making his hair grow in, instead of falling out.

When I find myself missing him, I turn to a very clear image of him, etched in my memory. He's standing in the front doorway of his house, with his arms raised above his head. He shouts the family motto at me and I yell it back. "We are the people!"

I've heard it said that you can't pick your family. Well, sometimes you can. He could have chosen to be a distant figure, just that gentleman married to my grandmother. Instead, he embraced the idea of being a grandfather and created strong, loving bonds. He taught me the true meaning of family. It's not just blood; it's love.