"Let me tell you a something about my family..."

"We are as thick as thieves...." (for all you Real Housewives of New Jersey fans out there).

Oh, but we are.

Sunday is Father's Day. This is the first Father's Day my father has had to spend without his father. Ironically, we'll all be spending it (sans Michael, as he is in Telluride with a "friend") at our family farm- the farm my grandfather purchased many years ago. My grandfather, "Daddy Moe," as affectionately referred, passed away in January. He was 81.

Life always brings unexpected events. There are no certainties, but uncertainty. His death was unexpected and life-changing. For the past five months we have reflected back on our memories and his presence in our everyday things- the things I never even knew he had influenced.

Back in November, Moe fell ill. He had always been a reasonably healthy man- strong as an ox, and with a temper to prove it. At 78 years old, he punched a man in the face for trespassing on his property and refusing to leave. It had only been three years since that had happened. The week he went into the hospital, he and Dad were spending time with one another at the farm. My grandfather was like an M&M,- a hard coating on the outside, but in the right hands he would melt. He loved his grandchildren, and I like to think we had a special bond, as I was the only girl of 6 grandkids. But he wasn't a fanatic about capturing photographs. As a matter of fact, it struck my father oddly that he was suddenly carrying around a disposable camera that day, walking the 200 acres of land.

Somehow, I think he knew.

He was so proud to have conquered a steep hill, walking as hard as he could to keep up with my father. He was breathing heavily, but beaming with pride. We think that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Unbeknownst to us, the "pig valve" his heart had received 16 years before, was failing. That Friday, he was admitted to the hospital and never came back out.

When Moe passed away, we developed that little camera and found the last photograph of him taken in good health. There he was, standing on the front porch of my parents' cabin, proud of his land, his heritage, his country, his legacy. In his camouflage coveralls and jacket, and a hunter's orange cap on his head, his strong hands grasped the flag of the country he had once served.

He died a proud man. Proud of my father and his sister, Beth. Proud of us grandkids, proud of Helen, his wife of over fifty years. Proud of all that he had done and made for our family. Proud of this country.

My father's father. My "Daddy Moe."

My father is a writer and a painter too. Maybe we inherited that creativity trait from Moe, as I can remember receiving a letter in the mail from him as a child that included a hand-drawn picture of their dog, Sarge with a broken leg. I thought about framing the "last photograph" on the front porch. But I decided that I could honor my heritage a little more by painting it in my own style- with my own flair.

That's how Moe was. He had his own flair. He didn't live by anyone else's rules.

Dad and I got that trait from him too.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I hope you like the painting. I'll see you tonight when my plane lands in Birmingham. Tomorrow, I'll pass you the tools as you hammer away at the barn that, one day, I'll tell my grandkids "We built together."