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When I first met him, he was sitting in his favorite chair with his feet up, eating some sort of cookie or pastry. He smiled at my Beau and then quickly flashed a stern look before asking him if he was behaving himself.

And then, his quick eyes found and settled on me.

He asked simple, polite questions. What my name was, where I was from, if I was related to so-and-so. He told a few jokes and made it a point to tell me he was an avid reader of my column.

He stared.

He was sizing me up.

When he finally stood up to get one thing or another for his wife who sat off to the side, smiling and looking fondly on, his size surprised me.

He was tall, strong.

He was Edward G. Zalepa Sr.

He was every bit as intimating to me then as he was to his family years ago in his prime.

Back when his seven children and 20 grandchildren were still babies in his eyes, he would threaten to bend them in half if they were getting out of line. On occasion, he would follow through on that promise, literally making tiny noses touch knobby knees.

He would holler and find any and all culprits of half-full cans of soda. That’s right, half-full. He would put you to work and teach you the hard way the value of a dollar, the value of earning what you get.

He would lead by example and show pride in working two or three jobs at a time to support his large, loud, loving family. He would sacrifice for his country and be a devoted member of numerous organizations throughout his community.

That man, that man that I met one autumn day four years ago, was strong.

That man was resilient.

That man was the man of his family.

Throughout my brief time getting to know him, he would fold me into big, welcoming hugs. He would whisper in my ear and tell me to call him Grandpa, too. He would smile easily, laugh frequently. He would make you a part of his family before he simply made you his friend.

He divvied up his love, his affection, his attention, equally.

On holidays, everyone would get an enveloped gift as he jovially called out names, one by one, making sure he saw your face and gave you a handshake or kiss on the cheek. He made his presence known and his adoration felt.

He was optimistic and realistic.

He was lenient and severe.

He broke all the rules but made sure, come hell or high water, that you followed his.

He made it impossible to forget him, hate him, or not want to be near him.

On bad days, if he wasn’t feeling well or quite like himself, you would never have known it. He would grit his teeth. He would push through the pain. He would make his hardships silent.

If he caught you studying his thinning frame, his tired eyes, or the way he rubbed his soar hands and knees, he would quickly straighten up, give you a stern look, and tell a joke or tale. He would demand your attention and pull your focus in any way he so pleased.

He was a teacher, a preacher, a clown.

He was the heart, soul, and demanding voice of a ruckus family.

He was a doting, affectionate husband for 59 years.

He was a proud father, grandfather, and great-grandfather.

He was a brother, uncle, and friend.

He set the foundation for a long, prosperous, full life. He proved that the richest man is one who values family above all else. He paved the way for his loved ones and led by example.

He was a legend.

His family must now carry on that legacy.

They must keep his memory, his traditions alive and see to it that all that he laid in place was not done so in vain.

They must watch over and care for his wife and one another as he had.

They must show the will, the determination, the fight that he possessed.

They must be strong and resilient as he was. They must remember the value of family as he did.

They must live the way Eddie, Dad, Grandpa, the Eagle had.

They must soar.

You will forever be loved and missed, Edward G. Zalepa Sr.

Back when his seven children and 20 grandchildren were still babies in his eyes, he would threaten to bend them in half if they were getting out of line. On occasion, he would follow through on that promise, literally making tiny noses touch knobby knees.