Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash — *Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash*

A formal funeral was never held for my grandfather-in-law: no songs were played, no eulogy said. Recently, I decided that I needed to write something to fill an empty spot in the mourning and memorial process. This is my eulogy, never said, for him.

In preparation for his passing, Leonard reiterated over and over that everything should be the least fussy, the least pretentious, the least mournful. It’s hard to not think that his insistence in this matter was fueled both by the humble attitude with which he lived his life, and also his hope that those of us now bereft of his presence would exalt his life, and its many adventures, through living our own. Known by many names and titles—Leonard, Abe Starr, Captain, Poppy—his life, starting in 1927, was like a book, with each chapter a different role, a different adventure.

In one chapter, he was working in a cigarette factory at 15, where the length of his smoke break was measured by the length of cigarette he would make by manually knocking the cutting blade out of alignment, and then back in again: about 2 feet.

In another, his many adventures as a BAR-man in the Western theater of World War II, where, once, he trustingly took the advice of a fellow solider on how to say a thank you to the French women helping serve their meal and discovered, upon being chewed out by her, that what his friend told him to say was a rather indecent proposal, definitely not the “merci beaucoups” he had thought.

At Garden of the Gods, a favorite place.

Post-war, as Abe Starr, another chapter would have to be written on his boxing and wrestling career. Ultimately enrolled in the Colorado Wrestling Hall of Fame, his tenure as a wrestler had to end when the trained bear he was supposed to wrestle wouldn’t actually wrestle with him, preferring to incessantly lick his face.

Taking a turn as an entrepreneur, Leonard opened and ran the Rocket bar out at what was the end of Denver’s civilization: Hampden and Santa Fe. In retrospect, he would often say that he didn’t think he was sober for the whole of the three years he ran it because his patrons tended to follow the old-world custom of tipping him by buying him a drink.

His final career chapter was in law enforcement as a Denver Sherriff. He retired as a Captain, and his badge was always carried with a sense of pride for the 27 years of service he dedicated.

The final chapter of his life, as a retired Grandfather, happily included doting on his grandchildren, all of whom have many a happy and touching memory of times spent with him and their Nana. He got to see his grandchildren graduate from Universities, get married, and have children of their own. Though active until his very last day, Poppy did, however, also suffer from many of the annoyances and frailties that come with 90 years of living. Indeed, just months before his death, he was most miffed to find that his teeth were giving out; he seemed to feel he should get a refund.

In death, Poppy truly “only slipped away into the next room”; he has gone off to write a new book of adventures, though it is one that we here do not get to read, at least not yet. Although we now cannot help but mourn, Poppy did not want the customary pomp and circumstance of a funeral. I think this is because he felt—he knew—that the end of his story was not the end of our story; that as our lives continue on, his life and adventures would, too, in both our hearts and memories.