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This is the 28th anniversary of my grandfather's death. It doesn't seem so long ago that I was sitting on his lap listening to him tell tales of how he lost his hair to Indians who had scalped him in the Wild West. All the grand kids totally believed him and I can still picture the image I had conjured up in my head of him riding a horse through the dusty plains being chased by screaming Indians. I also remember sitting next to him at his piano bench and listening to him play... beautiful music. Some was music he learned, but much was just his own meandering hands across the keys, playing whatever notes and piano man chords came to him. I can still hear what 'his' music sounded like, and I've yet to hear it's like anywhere. He was kind, and gentle, and loving. He washed the dishes every night and never let my grandmother, mother or aunt clean the bathroom toilet because he thought their hands shouldn't have to do such dirty work. And when I was very little, he babysat my sister and me a few days a week. For some reason, we got into the habit of having him make me cream of mushroom soup every time he watched us. To the point where I would greet him at the door with the Campbell's soup can in my hand. He called me his 'mushroom soup girl'. And I can't see a can of that soup to this very day without thinking of him. Before he passed, he was sick. And spent some time staying with us so my mother could help care for him. I remember him laying on our couch, looking much too thin, but still the same sweet man he ever was. All he would ask for now and then was for one of us to bring him a little ginger ale. And he would always call you 'dear' when he asked. 'Laura dear, would you please bring me a little ginger ale.' smile emoticon it's funny the small things that persist in memory. I was only 16 when he died, but his place in my heart is as big as ever. He was a good man. Honest and loyal and quick with joke. Rest in peace, John Patrick Donohue, and thank you for being my mushroom soup grandpa.