I am a grandfather to an unknown number of people, and a great-grandfather to a bunch more. I have been for forty years.

One of my fondest memories was having my first grandson Chris in my lap as a two year old, and my son Riley in diapers, above him in my arms, in Oakland, CA.

The place was actually very cool, a three story apartment and I was on the top floor overlooking downtown Lake Merritt. I was the hotshot developer and my company paid the rent.

But this post is about my grandfather, James (Jack) King. He was a great man, an entrepreneur, a gold miner, and a sign painter.

He made a huge difference in my life growing up, and I remember the last time I saw him. He drove me out to a freeway on-ramp in Sacramento, CA, where my goal was to hitch hike down to Arizona and try out for a Pro baseball team.

We exchanged our love, and the last thing I said to him was pray for me.

I layed over in Fresno to hang with a girlfriend first, and when I called to check in I found out he had come home, mowed the lawn, then walked into his kitchen and died from a heart attack.

I came back, and was handed his World War One flag at his burial, which remains one of my prized possessions.