Love you Pop

My maternal grandfather, Marvin Buffington, died Sunday evening.

He was a man that was always making plans whether it was a trip to Radio Shack, a neighborhood festival he had heard mentioned on the radio or just a drive he knew had a pretty view at the end.

Like many men of this generation his life is a story waiting to be told. His early days were spent in the makeshift tent cities outside mining camps in South Dakota, eventually moving to the upstairs quarters of the Philip, South Dakota train depot, where his grandfather was the station master. He continued moving east to Chicago and eventually followed his father in working for the power company. Chicago is where he met and married my grandmother, Frances.

A conscientious objector to war, he was imprisoned during WWII and would have died from pneumonia without the extraordinary help and risk of a prison doctor. After serving his time he was released and relocated to the east side of Cleveland where he and Fran made a life for themselves and their four daughters.

Pop was a talented electrician and began fixing and maintaining the new medical machines for the Cleveland Clinic and eventually developed and patented his own device named the Buffington Cuff. (I did a report on that in school.) At the time he was on the cutting edge of "erectile dysfunction" and the contributing, underlying health concerns, not the mass marketing quick fixes of today.

He designed and built two houses to hold his family; the "little house" and then when necessary, the "big house" just next door. Pop had run the hot water for the big house through the slab foundation so there was radiant heat all through. I loved sitting on their wiry carpet and feeling the warmth from the floor.

He loved to travel just like my grandmother and business trips took him all over the globe but he was the worst backseat driver ever.
He always had a slightly inappropriate joke to share at the table to which Fran would let out "Marrr-vin!"

He wore flannel pajamas all year round and could tear a greater Cleveland phone book in half by hand. His letters usually consisted of a newspaper article he thought you should read with handwritten notes all over it and big question marks next to his new ideas.
He braked for aforementioned street festivals, dancing girls and pie.
He suggested that we name Ian, Ian Erasmus Hughes. When we didn't he continued to suggest it for each subsequent child.
He was a truly handsome man at every age.

After a prolonged illness in Ohio and concerns about another winter, he and Fran moved to New Mexico to stay with my aunt. There he continued to stop for pie, read the paper, wear long underwear, feed the birds, eat oatmeal and take lazy drives to spots with good views.

I love the memory of my last conversation with Pop because it was quintessentially him; full of plans, ideas of places to go, funny jokes, his great laugh and love for his family.
He will be missed.