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I remember grandfather Granade as a child remembers: a small figure in a bed that loomed over me in the semi-darkness. He was ill—had been ill forever, so far as I knew—and we made numerous trips from Evergreen “over home” to Leroy. I remember the trips and riding and sleeping on the package ledge beneath the rear window of our ’49 Ford; I remember seeing him only this once, being lifted from the floor by my father so that I could see and be touched by him. Searching my memory, I find him my introduction to death.



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