The words I spoke at the end.
My life witness statements for my grandmother Emma and grandfather Ralph Nelson.
In life, there are precious few moments that we truly remember and even fewer that we want to, yet shared here within these words are two moments that I refuse to let go of.
I had the distinct honor of speaking as a witness to the life of two extraordinary people — my Grandmother and Grandfather. They shaped me during my youth and helped make me everything I am today.
I am their living memory, a corporeal apparition of who they were and what they represent. This I believe deeply. The love they gave to me, I now have an opportunity to pour out on those around me. I hope I do half as good a job as they did.
Below are the words that I spoke when my Grandmother passed away at her memorial in 2011. The boy that I was then, stands in stark comparison to the Husband and Father of two that I am today. I typed these words through my tears in the small back office of a church on my iPhone 4 days before her memorial.
“Hello,
Many of you may know me, yet most of you don’t. My name is josh Nelson; Emma is my grandmother.
I asked specifically today to say some words because I felt called to share about who she is to me. She is more like a mom than grandmother. However, she is most certainly grand.
When I came to America, I could hardly walk, couldn’t talk, and didn’t even know the difference between the two. I ended up under the care of my grandparents. Then many years later my birth mother came, and my life changed again… Yet my grandparents were still there. It’s at this time my friend Daniels's mother adopted me into their household as I spent every weekend at their home. Soon I moved in with my father, only to find myself back to living with my grandparents. They, the two of them, my grandpa and my grandma, had always been there. As a teenager, I began to respect more and more what they had actually done for me. They, together as a team, had always been my safety net, my place of knowing that I would be welcome at any time.
By my senior year in highschool the full scope of what they had done for me began to appear. It wasn't the money they had spent on me, it was the time they gave for me. And no one gave me more than my grandma, all those meals and the time she put into creating each one; even after she complained about having to cook, she’d be in there cooking up a storm. All those snacks she prepared for me on those trips.
Then there's all those things she’d force me to do. Such as fundraising money for the annual band trip I took. But that was when I was in high school. I can recall a time when she used to cut my hair…. Patch up my pants cause I’d rip holes in them… Correct me and my terrible grammar…. Ya know the little things. Take, for example, this cup, given to me by my sister for Christmas and broken by accident by my grandpa. It’s only a cup, yet now it means the world to me. Laying its two halves on the countertop, I dashed to work…. Only to return to find her struggling to get the top off a bottle of glue so she could fix the cup — my cup. After what was probably an hour, she came into the office where I sat doing homework to tell me that the glue would take 24 hours. I thanked her, and she left to go watch the news, as it had become a habit for her to do so every evening. I never asked her to fix it, never even pointed out that it was broken. But she saw it and took it upon herself to do it. It was the last thing I can recall her fixing for me.
Or take, for instance, this note that I found only after she had passed [read note].” she had left it on the fridge where she knew I’d look eventually, on the night before she passed. It is handwritten.
She was generously stubborn; at times, it almost seemed that she was pushing herself on you. It was at times like these where I would get feel anger towards her in ways that today make me feel ashamed. In all truth, she always wanted the best for me and made it a point of telling me what she thought. I wish I had paid attention….
At times she was an incredibly demanding person to live with… and I can remember wanting to leave the office when she came in and started swearing at the computer, as it was the worst purchase she claimed to have made. Or as she fought when the fridge, yet another purchase she claimed was the worst she had ever made. Now that it I think about it, she claimed every purchase of technology was the worst she’d ever made. Yet she still used them all. She would always watch NBC nightly news every night and always had to throw the comment in. She would always listen to the recordings she would make on tape of the Babes rehearsals far to loudly… Driving everyone in the house insane, including the bird. She was intolerable…
Yet now I’d give my legs and my fingers to get her back… To listen to her ranting about politics with my father at dinner… To watch as it took her 10 minutes to find her purse. 5 minutes to find her phone. 5 minutes to pull the “van” from the driveway. To look at her through the windows of our kitchen as she puffed her life away in the darkness. To have to wait for her to catch up as we walked to anywhere.
Because now all I have is memories… All I have now is lasts… Times that I’ll never be able to experience again. Such as my birthday or valentines day when I woke to find that she had decorated the dinner table, probably spending hours to do what could’ve been done in minutes. Or the last time I ate at Mazzotti’s, where she sat across from me and I told her my dreams. Christmas of 2010 was the last time that I’d be able to sit around the table with all of the people that I knew I loved unconditionally.
It’s at this point that I can also say the word never, and mean it. It is because I’ll never be able to ask her how the weather will be today or what her favorite color was or favorite food… I’ll never be able to ask her how her day was or what was for dinner. I’ll never be able to ask her if it was alright for me to do this or that… I’ll never get the chance to say “grandma I love you,” and have her hear it.
It’s rather ironic that I’d be reading to you all a speech I wrote on my iPhone because before Steve Jobs died I’d never had even thought of owning one, yet after his death, I came to read so much about him… Realizing that because of him, my dream of working for Pixar was actually a possibility. I read every article I could find about him till I felt that I knew all I could about him. It’s only now that I’ve realized that I never really knew my own grandma, the woman who had practically raised me. And that I have missed my chance. I will never find an article in Rolling Stone magazine, people, or time that will tell me her about her life and how she changed the world for everyone. Let’s face it; she never changed the world as Jobs did with Apple. But she did change the world, for as I live, my view of the world will be forever different because of her. She changed my world, and for me, that’s all that matters. She will be alive as long as we can tell her story.
I found this verse in Germany this past summer. It saved me then as it had October 21st when I sat watching my grandma's last breaths of oxygen. Palms 48:14 “For this god is our god forever and ever: and he will be our guide even unto death.”
In conclusion, she was a force that forever altered the face of the earth. Yet those who were lucky enough to know her are the only ones who are able to see how. I will never get to see my grandma grow old, because of that I end by asking you all… Do you know the person who will change your life forever? I didn’t.”
Below are the words that I spoke when my Grandfather passed away at his memorial in 2023. I am now a Husband and a Father. These words as much as they are for me and the dead, are for my children - my two precious boys, for in these words are everything that I am.
“Hello,
My name is Josh Nelson. Ralph Nelson was my Grandpa.
— —
He made a special request to have one of his short stories read today during his memorial. The title of this story is “That Darned Bee:
Tired from a nonproductive three day sales trip, I drove home to Eureka on Highway 299 up the grade to Buckhorn Summit. There were still 140 miles to go when I pulled in behind a line of cars waiting to be piloted through a section of road repair. I turned off the car’s engine, rolled down the windows for ventilation and resigned myself to what looked like a long wait. Then, in flew that darned bee, just buzzing away like it owned the car.
It flew toward the windshield and circled back toward me. I ducked. I tried to shoo it out. The bee wouldn’t leave. Arm waving, even opening the car door didn’t dissuade it. I became so involved in ousting the bee that it took the blasts of car horns from behind to tell me that the line had begun to move. I sheepishly started my car.
I had to get rid of the pest. I rummaged in the glove compartment, found a road map to use as a swatter. I looked about for the bee. I couldn’t find it and was almost convinced the bee had left when buzzing came from near the windshield. That blasted insect was investigating the air circulation vents in front of the dashboard. I broke a pencil trying to dislodge it: even turned on the fan blower full blast. Nothing worked. In complete exasperation I envisioned that the bee was checking out the space to establish a hive.
Reason finally prevailed. Sooner or later the tenacious insect would come out. I placed the map on the dashboard within easy reach and proceeded on my trip. The next few miles had many curves requiring my full concentration. When I eventually reached a straightaway I discovered that the bee had indeed left its lair. It was on top of the road map. The map, turned inside out, showed snaking highway lines. My mind pictured the bee, as it walked down the lines, to be studying the map in an attempt to find out where it was. I told the bee that it was indeed many miles from its hive. The bee began to preen.
I glanced its way periodically with renewed interest. This honey colored creature with fuzzy head and brown stripes was attractive. And, it didn’t enter the car to attack me. It was my fault. My colorful shirt probably lured this worker. I suddenly remembered, worker bees are female.
I had intruded into her industrious life. Now she was probably long overdue in returning to her hive. Another thought occurred, even if I managed to get her out of the car she would probably die. She could never make her way back home. Would she be welcomed if she found another hive? No matter what happened, her journey with me would be the cause of her demise.
I had no choice. At the next safe opportunity I turned the car around and took that little lady back to the spot where she entered the car.
The end.”
— -
Grandpa always did love a good short story. I heard many during the years that I had the privilege to live with him throughout my youth. He lived a long, rich, full life. But he is now in peace, gazing down from his home in Heaven, smiling, knowing that he lived a life worth living.
Years ago my Grandpa had asked me to speak at this very moment and I’ll be honest, this is a moment I feared — a moment I dreaded with the entirety of my being. But a moment that has arrived nonetheless. Like the story that I just read, all good things must come to an end — and that presents us all with an opportunity to reflect, mourn, and start the next chapter of our stories with a new sense of purpose from what we learned from the last. As such, my grandpa’s story had to come to an end, and so too the chapters in all of our lives that he shared with us must, too come to a close.
Over 12 years ago, I had the distinct honor of speaking at my grandma Emma’s memorial in this very same church. This is the place I spent my youth being corralled in by both of my grandparents and it is here that I learn to fall asleep strategically in the pews. Now I am back here for the final time to talk about my grandpa. But before I do, I’ll take a quick moment to talk about my grandma, as I discovered over the past month, mourning the loss of my grandpa, the death of loved ones tends to create echoes. In my grandpa’s case, I cannot talk about him without first addressing the final moments of my grandma’s life.
When my Grandmother Emma passed away, it was sudden. Quick. Cutting like a flash of lightning through the sky, one moment she was here, the next she was gone. Her passing ripped the fabric of my life open overnight, reshaping my life forever. My Grandmother never got to see first-hand the man that I would become; she never got to meet my beautiful wife Natalie, my regal corgi’s, and never got to meet my sons, my rambunctious bundles of delight — Apollo, and Sebastian. She left too soon.
In stark comparison, my Grandfather was blessed with more time and as such, lived longer to be a blessing for all of us. During that time, he watched from the front row as I grew up and slowly began to live the life that he wanted me to have. The reality that I inhabit today and tomorrow has been touched, shaped, and formed in subtle but meaningful ways by the delicate work of his hands. I know this to be true.
There is no more clear or stark example that I can think of than the wedding ring that I wear on my finger. The very same ring that he wore for over 55 years, which for the last 7 years has been wrapped by the bands of my Grandmother's wedding ring, which she wore until the day she died. It is a vivid reminder to me every day of the vow I made to my wife and family and represents the love my grandpa and my grandma spent their lives pouring into me as I grew up. When my grandfather offered me the rings, I didn’t quite comprehend the magnitude of the gift he gave me — even to this day, I’m still processing it’ significantly, trying to understand all the stories these rings represent.
— -
In truth, so many stories could be shared that should be shared; he had over 94 years to make an impression on Earth, and he did just that. I wish, beyond a wish, that I could tell you them all because the world he was born into is in so many ways different from the world that he left. For instance, when he was young, he used to walk to school and back uphill both ways in the snow and if he wanted milk — he didn’t go to the store, he would have to go to the cow — what a different life. That said, I cannot tell you all his stories, I can only tell you fleeting memories from the last 29 years he lived. I can only tell you how he chose to live when he knew that the ink bottle was beginning to run dry and his time had come to pass the wisdom and values that he had learned to the next generation.
Additionally, I can only tell you the stories I had the courage to ask about, and truth be told — I didn’t have enough courage when I had my chance to ask for more. There are questions that I wanted answers to but never had the strength to ask. As a father, there’s so much wisdom that I fear I missed out on with my grandpa’s passing. I can only trust that Grandpa with all his hard-earned wisdom, gave me what he considered the most important.
Perhaps the most important wisdom he shared was simply found in how he chose to live. Because until the very end, he was a man of God — choosing to live by faith. He brought Christ’s gifts into the lives of all who met him. He cared deeply about those around him, and his family feasted on the fruits of his labor for years and still do, even in his passing. His genuine exuberance for life gave a pep to his steps. His natural energy fueled his pursuits of musical theater in retirement while helping him keep up with his growing family’s various adventures — least we forget also the epic campaigns against the Deer in the backyard on Ivy Lane that he waged (which only a man that served in the grueling harshness of Alaska in Army Air Corps could have planned and executed). He had a soul filled with compassion for those around him — always seeking for them to find fulfillment and happiness at his own expense.
I speak from first-hand experience, witnessed year after year, decade after decade, how my Grandfather served his family as a firm foundation — the same yesterday, today as tomorrow, and tomorrow’s tomorrow during all of life’s chaotic storms. Grandpa was always just Grandpa — nothing more and nothing less. I witnessed how through thick and thin, his resolve to find the goodness in others never wavered.
He would smile with his lips in a gentle smirk, wave a friendly hello, trot about his home, and crack the short quip in his soft-spoken way like: “I’ll take some coffee with my creamer, please.” He would write beautiful short stories with his Silver Quils, such as the one I read earlier — “That Darn Bee” or “20 Minute Parking” (or perhaps my favorite title, “Remember I Have the Snake” — truly inspired!). He would share them with those who would listen. And every so often, he would drop the occasional piece of wisdom that cut to the very heart of the issue.
One example of this came to light when I returned from an internship that had included a grinding 2-hour drive 1-way into the office each morning. Upon my return to his home (which I was fortunate enough to call my home for years), he sat me down and said, “I do not ever want to see you take a job that requires you to do that kind of drive, it simply isn’t worth the cost to your family.” Or when I told him that I had gotten into a graduate program but expressed my concern that it would require me to move almost 600 miles away, Grandpa simply said: “Please do not stay in Humboldt for me. There is so much to life that you need to be able to experience.” He never really wanted anyone to fuss over him.
The last time I saw him was a week before the end. Two distinct memories from that moment are sheered into my soul that I’ll share with you today which capture so vividly who Grandpa was.
The first memory: I was present when the Reverend came into his room and asked him: “Ralph, what is there that I can pray for you about? Is there anything that can help your soul?” Barely above a whisper, given the decline in his health, my Grandfather said, “For me? No. But my great-grandson, he is going through some medical issues. I want to pray for him.” With his end near, his prayer was for my son — the next and future generation.
The second memory: I had an opportunity to say Goodbye — to say my final words. And it ruined me. What could I possibly say to a person who had shared so much with me? Someone who to me, is captured by the emotional totality of goodness that distinct individual memories and moments are hard to remember — because to me, he was always there. How could I possibly bring to close this chapter of my life? I of all people, hate the end of a good story. What words could possibly be sufficient?
When I finally found my courage here is what I said: “Grandpa, I want you to know how much growing up on Ivy Lane in your home meant to me, it was my home, and I loved every moment. Thank you.” He smiled gently at me from his bed and told me it was: “time I started to work on what I was going to say today at his memorial — to work on his story.” He knew his end was near and was at peace with it; enough to crack a smile and be eager for the new horizon and sunshine of the next great adventure.
When I received the dreaded phone call from my sister informing me that Grandpa’s next great adventure had begun, she had told me of her visit the day before. She said, “I told Grandpa he had my permission to go… sometimes people need to hear that to move on.” It’s just like him in a way, stubborn to the very end because I’m sure in his head he still felt responsible for his family and was ready to try and stay — if not for one more day.
— -
I do not believe he would claim to be an exceptionally extraordinary person if he were still here. I genuinely believe that never mattered to him. In life, it’s far too easy to idolize the Titans who rise up and carve new pathways for the world to follow. But Grandpa,, well, he never set out to invent something that would change millions of people’s lives or discover some new knowledge that would challenge our understanding of reality. He sought to live a good life, one that was worth living. One that he could pass on to those around him. One that he could look back on at the end and not be burdened with loss or regret. All those years I spent idolizing distant figures, I wasted, when I should have seen the man who had been alongside me the entire time. He lived a life worth living. One I hope to have. One I hope my sons will have.
Ralph shined a light on the immersable value of being simply an exceptionally ordinary person. And as such, he was a staggeringly beautiful soul who loved deeply, was loved by all who met him, and will be missed dearly by those who had the chance to spend time with him. I know with a deep conviction that he is in peace. He has finally left behind the aging body that bore the weathering of all years on the Wagon Wheel Ranch, and the journey’s through the wilderness backpacking through the mountain trails, not to mention the toll of being on the stage singing about those damn Yankees, or the simple fact that through all the years he sheltered his family with a deep conviction to do good. He has finally left behind that lone game of solitaire that he played each night on his computer downstairs. He is finally home in Heaven and can rest forevermore in the company of others.
As clear as a cloudless sunlight day, I can picture Ralph ambling through the glamorous pearlescent gates of Heaven, nodding politely to Saint Peter, and Jesus manning the gates, who places a gentle hand on his back and says, “Welcome home, son, you can now rest, I’ve got your family from here.” I can see him waving his signature short hello and being greeted by countless family members and friends who made it to Heaven before him.
I can see him taking the hands of his lifelong bride Emma who raced him to Heaven first, who he himself never got the chance to say goodbye to, but now has a chance to lovingly embrace. I can see them both gently strolling up the steps of an ornate theater with its doors wide open. I can see Grandpa finding his plush velvety red seat and after removing his well-worn jean jacket, sitting down to open the playbill. It reads, “Today’s performance is brought to you by the Nelson family and those whose life you have impacted, all those still on earth.” He closes the booklet, and with Emma’s hand resting his arms on the armrests, he settles down in the serenity of the moment to watch over the remainder of the lives he touched.
— -
Grandpa, I know I speak for our whole family when I say I will miss you. I will miss our countless holidays spent around the table enjoying the excellent food and company of family. I will miss our phone calls. I will miss our hugs. I will miss seeing your face light up with renewed vigor at the stories and pictures of your great-grandchildren simply living life. I will miss how every time we ended our chats, you told me to “give my love to your wife and kids and scratch the dogs behind the ears for me.”
Grandpa, you were the man that I wanted to become for years. Only now that you have passed do I realize you never wanted that for me or anyone else. You wanted me to look at you and see a glimpse of Jesus. You wanted me to be better, more loving, caring, kind, gracious, forgiving, and okay with my humanity. You gave me everything you could to help me get there and pointed me, and those around you, in the direction of Heaven with the way you lived your life.
Grandpa, I can be filled with joy today and forevermore, knowing you are in Heaven. I can look up to the sky and the nighttime stars and see that twinkle, knowing your eyes are watching and that there’s a smile on your face at how far we’ve come and how much further is still yet to go. When life gets hard, I know you’ll be there sitting beside me, patting my back and encouraging me forward. And when I celebrate life’s significant moments, I know you and Emma are there amongst the revelry beaming with delight. I can find peace knowing we will meet again when it’s my turn to land on those far-away white shores in a green country under a swift sunrise. I will again enjoy the warm embrace of your arms and the gentle, soothing voice that guided me for years.
I want this desperately, but there’s a life here on earth that I need to live first and chapters in my story yet to be written. So, for now, I’ll work to pass along the wisdom of your life and care for the next generations by helping guide them in the same direction you gave me. Grandpa, you taught me that.
— -
To close — Ralph Nelson — was the ultimate Grandpa.
But he is not truly gone, so I will amend my closing statement: “Ralph Nelson — is the ultimate Grandpa.”
Reading these words fills me with the pain of loss. Yet simultaneously, they fill me with hope for an amazing future. They are the words that I spoke at the end of a lifetime. They are the words I hope to have spoken about me when I’m at my end.
