Last week was the thirty-fifth anniversary of my grandfather’s death. The New York Times obituary is here and represented below. My grandfather lived in Kent, where my mother is from. I only saw him three times. He could wiggle his ears and his hair was bright white. He and my grandmother, known as Wallace, were two of the funniest people I’ve ever met. He died two months after I got to college. I was affected by it more than I expected to be. He felt like a logical link to a world that I was only lightly connected to. We didn’t have the money to get over there very much.