Sixty-three years my grandparents had been married. SIXTY-THREE YEARS. I cried off and on through the memorial service (Amazing Grace. EVERY TIME.) and at the graveside service I held it together all the way through taps and then they handed that flag to my grandmother and I lost it, because SIXTY-THREE YEARS. They made themselves soul-mates and had some hard times together, and she spent so long caring for him, but he loved her so much that even when he was in the ICU he was cracking jokes about how much he was looking forward to getting some "romance time" when he got home. He had five children, twenty-three grandchildren, and fourteen great-grandchildren, (and a whole bunch of in-laws, out-laws, and otherwise) and not a single one of us would exist if he didn't fall in love with and marry my grandmother, and all of our lives would've sucked if they hadn't worked so hard for us. But we always had a place to go to, and even though he could stubborn and critical and a jackass (wonder where we all got that from), he was a hell of a man.
Three of my brothers were pall bearers, so even though Dad was too sick to make it our branch was fully represented. And I got to finally meet my niece Rowaen, who just turned a year old last month, and she is the cutest, sweetest baby I have ever seen, and I got to hang out with some brothers I haven't seen in a while and get to know others better, and I have such a huge, crazy, bizarre family. I always knew I was weird, but I certainly know I'm a Johnson, and I think that, as an adult, this had helped me reached some peace with that, because in my day-to-day actions I try to pretend I'm not. I'm one of the least crazy, but I'm still a Johnson, damn it. It also completely explains my strange sense of humor, too.
I can only hope my life is as half as fruitful as my grandparents'.