Though he didn’t live in Hamilton, my grandfather read the Hamilton Post every month.
It started with The Pipeline. Arranged without my knowledge, The Pipeline went like this: A Hamilton resident would bring their read copy of the Hamilton Post to work. There, the paper would be handed off to my uncle, who worked with the Hamilton resident. My uncle then would transport the paper home to Union County, where he’d give it to my grandfather.
That pipeline dried up awhile ago. The Hamilton resident retired. Then, my grandfather wound up in the hospital earlier this year, and wasn’t doing much reading of any kind—out of character for him. I tried to fill in the gaps, bringing him the paper in the hospital and even narrating my column once.
He was particularly proud of this column. He liked to point out lines that made him laugh, and—always learning—would ask questions about subjects that intrigued him, even if they had no bearing on his life.
He only ever made one suggestion or critique: he told me I should move the location of my column so the crossword puzzle wouldn’t fall on the next page. He said people like to tear crosswords out of newspapers, and whatever’s on the back side winds up thrown out with the finished puzzle while the rest of the paper stays intact.
For a few months, I took his advice. But for one reason or another, this feature and the crossword puzzle wound up drifting back together—stuck like two magnets. My grandfather kept reading anyway.
Not that he would have ever brought it up again. He did not like attention, and was not a boastful person. He shifted conversations away from himself and how he was doing, feeling.
But he always managed to convey he took pride in my work, and that of all his grandchildren. Still, I didn’t know the extent until the days after his death, at 93, June 27.
The stories at the viewing and funeral overwhelmed me. How he talked up my writing so much that the nurses at his Union County hospital were soon requesting their own copies of the Hamilton Post. How he spent over an hour talking to his niece, visiting from Massachusetts, about me, my writing and this column. How people would approach me with “You’re the writer?” and tell me about how much they had heard about my exploits.
Doing this job, you’re vaguely aware that your efforts are public. Your words can have impact. But I, for one, never expected to have a fan, even if it’s a member of my own family. It’s a lot to process, too much to squeeze into any one piece of writing, especially from someone like me who has a lot of thoughts already.
But I figure it’s only right to dedicate one last column to my hype man. The best I can do to share his essence with you is to reprint here the eulogy I gave at his funeral July 2. Even if you didn’t know my Pop Pop—or don’t know me—personally, I hope the point stands up.
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Hello, my name is Rob Anthes. I’m Bill’s grandson. Our family would like to thank you for attending.
Bill has four children and 10 grandchildren, so I can’t express enough how much of an honor it is to be the one saying a few words about him today.
For those of you who knew my grandfather, you’d know he did not like to be the center of attention. If you were at a restaurant for a birthday, and the waitstaff came by clapping and singing, he’d position himself with arms tensed, halfway out of his chair, ready to run, in case the waiters were headed for our table. He did not want the spotlight.
He also did not like to be on the telephone longer than absolutely necessary. A phone call was not for chit-chat, only for exchanging relevant information. So, out of respect for my grandfather, I’m going to try to keep this the length of a Pop Pop phone call. Which is to say, it won’t be long.
I was just married this past year, September 16, on what happened to be Pop Pop’s last birthday.
I think the symptoms from his illness started around then; he wasn’t feeling well. He wound up in the hospital before the wedding, and there was some question whether he’d be able to attend.
But, on the day of the wedding, he was there. Not only was he there, but he was up and smiling, showing no hint that he’d been in the hospital, at 92, just days before.
He knew how much I wanted him to be there, how important he was to me, so he went. He showed up. And that, to me, sums up my grandfather.
He was there.
He was never not there. I can’t recall a single time, a single moment when I needed something of him, when he didn’t provide. You can ask any of his children, children in-law, grandchildren and grandchildren in-law. They’d all say the same thing.
It’s a remarkable person who can be there, fully, for so many people. To share equally in his love.
Look at his life. He grew up during the Great Depression, flew in the 8th Air Force during World War II, raised four children, served as a loving partner to my grandmother—caring for her through a terrible illness.
His was a life of sacrifice. Life tested him. But he didn’t allow the world to warp him. He didn’t let negativity or sadness in. He refused to even consider the bad. Instead, he allowed love to rule, his faith to guide him.
And, because of that, no matter what he had going on personally, he showed up. Day after day. With a smile. With positivity. Excited for whatever was to come his way, whether it was quiet time in his chair with a novel or a drive to Roselle Catholic, to Cranford, to Hamilton, to Liverpool, New York, to watch his grandchildren do what they loved. He was there.
And, when you look back on a life, I don’t think there is a greater thing you can say about a person than that: he was there.
So, just because we’re here today, doing this, doesn’t mean he’s going to stop being there. If you looked around the funeral home yesterday [at the viewing], there was sadness and grief, yes. But there were also smiles and laughing and so many stories shared about Pop Pop. We had connected because of him. He was there.
Now it’s on us to go forward, to keep his legacy alive, to make something from the sadness we’re feeling.
Using Pop Pop’s life as a guide, there’s only one way I know how:
Be present for each other. Day after day. With a smile. With positivity. Knowing we are blessed to have shared this Earth with such a wonderful person.
