This man stormed the beach at Normandy in WWII, and survived to become a house mover, a milkman, a beloved father, husband, and grandfather, and to preach the gospel for over 45 years.
I remember him helping us to capture wild rabbits with a box and a string tied to a stick, cutting up cantaloupes from his garden and making watermelon rind pickles. He would help us build and outfit our little girl forts with flowers and pop tarts cut out of peg board, and we would balance coins on the railroad tracks and come home with the warm, paper thin disks in our pockets. He would take walks every day, returning with his pearl snap shirt stuffed with old cans he'd cleaned up off the roadside. Both Jesse and Ruby's middle names are 'Storms' in his honor, and he would smile if he knew that 'Tacks, the boy disaster' dedicated a song to him the night of his funeral at a dirty rock club in downtown Austin.
He was strong as an ox, laughed easily, nursed my ailing grandmother for years and raised up a damn fine daddy for me. If it's true what they say about storing up riches in heaven, I can't wait to sip divine coffee with ambrosia salad in the palace gardens of New Robert Stormslandia.
I love you Grandpa!