Gerald Stanley "Jerry" Allen

When I think about my Grandpa, three memories rise to the surface that remind me who he was and why his life mattered so deeply.

The first memory is of my Grandpa´s woodworking. I was ten years old-small, excited, and fresh home from Disney World with a puppet I thought was the greatest thing in the world. I was convinced I was going to be a ventriloquist. My sister even bought me a book to help me learn.

That summer, my Grandpa invited me to Marietta. Instead of laughing at a child´s dream, he welcomed it. That entire week, we worked side by side building a wooden stand for that puppet. At the time, it felt simple. Looking back now, I see something sacred in it. I see patience. I see love. I see a man quietly teaching without needing many words.

Through my Grandpa, I learned that my gift wasn´t in speaking, but in creating. I believe people are placed in our lives at exactly the right moment to help guide us toward who we are meant to become. My Grandpa was one of those people for me, and without him, my life would look very different.

The second memory is more of an experience than a single moment. When we were kids, it was always the highlight of our summer when we heard we were going to Marietta. That small southern Minnesota town was the coolest place in the world to us as kids. There was always so much to do-driving lawnmowers until we ran them out of gas, picking and eating apples straight from the tree, playing with cousins, and of course my brother and I getting into mischief.

If Grandpa had known that my brother and I were shooting at the purple martin house, hoping to bag one of those fast-moving birds, I don´t think I´d be telling this story the same way today.

But the most important thing about Marietta was cribbage. I remember learning the ropes of a game that didn´t seem nearly as important as everything we could do outside. Little did I realize how much that game would impact me, or how much smack talk and banter could fit into a single hand. I don´t know how many games I won against my grandpa-probably not many. He might have been of the only person who could compete with me but One of the last times I saw and talked with him, he made sure to bring up our final game. "That´s right," he said, "the last time we played, I won." I will always miss playing cribbage with my grandpa.

My final memory is from my wedding day. After the ceremony, during pictures, my Grandpa came up to me with tears in his eyes. He looked at me and said, "You have a beautiful wife, and I hope you have a long, loving marriage full of love like Grandma and I had."

In that moment, I understood what mattered most to him. Not possessions. Not accomplishments. But love. Family. Commitment. A life shared and built together. He lived those values every day, and he passed them down to all of us in his own way.

While we grieve today, I believe my Grandpa is at peace. His work here is complete, but his spirit lives on in the way we love one another, in the way we hold our family close, and in the values he planted in each of us.

Grandpa, thank you for the love you gave, the lessons you taught, and the life you lived. We carry you with us always.