Grief does funny things to your brain. One minute you’re here, in the present moment, talking to someone you know or doing a chore you’ve done hundreds of times before… the next you’re confused, lost, and reliving an old memory without warning.

• – You’re riding along on his John Deere tractor as he does the lawn.
• – You’re sitting in Allen Fieldhouse watching a game so loud you can barely hear him next to you.
• – You’re losing at checkers while he laughs that he got you again.
• – You’re eating the special at Homer’s in a booth across from him like it’s a Tuesday evening in the 90s.

I somewhat un-luckily deal with intrusive and unwanted thoughts daily, so I’m trying to use what my therapist calls “the Teflon mind” to keep from getting stuck. Her favorite example uses a fried egg, but in grandpa’s honor I’ll change it to his usual breakfast of potatoes and onions.

When grief turns on the stovetop and throws fresh ingredients into the pan, you can’t run away and let it sit unattended or it will burn up and make a giant mess you’ll just have to deal with later. Instead, you observe what’s happening, acknowledge it, give it some time and attention, and then slide it off the pan and onto a plate for breakfast. And, if you’re Gramps, you go watch some Gunsmoke because it’s 4:30am.

But this has been my routine all week. A memory rises up from deep in left field, interrupting my regularly scheduled programming and demanding my attention. So, like Dr. Sam Beckett in Quantum Leap, I relive that experience, sorting through what did or did not happen, honoring his memory, and hopefully learning a life lesson to button up the episode with.

Then I’m off; jumping into younger and older versions of myself at random, landing in all the places where Gramps left a mark.

• – He’s cleaning his Army issued S9 “BCG” glasses with his zipup sweater.
• – He’s cussing up a storm as he hammers his thumb instead of a nail.
• – He’s driving 40min out of his way for some good fried chicken and a slice of chocolate pie.
• – He’s taking me to see the “enjee tuwtels” in person, and then saving me from the giant scary mascots that showed up instead of the cartoons I was expecting.

In Quantum Leap, Sam is always looking for his last jump. The one that will finally take him home. But I already know that there are too many moments which have grandpa’s fingerprints all over them to ever expect this to stop.

And if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t want them to anyway.

We love you, we miss you, and we have a lifetime of jokes, puns, and stories to keep retelling for you. Thanks for all of that, and so much more.

Obituary: Harry V. Davis (1920 – 2025)