To whom it may concern,
My earliest memory of you is when I am five years old.  We are out fishing on a cold fall night, our only light provided by the lamp on the rear of the boat.  I sit in the seat next to you, shivering because I forgot a proper jacket.  Suddenly, I feel my pole shake.  You tell me to reel in, and I follow your directions.  I reel and reel until my arms become too tired to continue.  You take over and bring in a fish so big, that to this day, I have still not caught one to match its size.
Even though years have passed since that day, I still view you as a strong, all-knowing mentor.  Every time your son loads the dark green Suburban with our clothes and blankets, I know that I will see you soon.  I know that I will have the privilege to learn from your trials in life, which have always emerged from deep in my mind in times of hardship.  The three-hour drive to your house always goes by in a blur.  Time seems to go faster during the car ride, but the instant we pass the fire hall, the bait shop, or the park, time stops.  I know that I have to savor every moment, of every day, with you. 
When I see the freshly stained wooden sign with your last name so proudly branded; and the fastidiously maintained blacktop, I stop and hope that someday my driveway will look so perfect.  I always notice the woodpiles, covered in blue shrink-wrap, waiting to warm your home in the winter.  I yearn to drive the beautiful red truck, which is put away in a separate garage, so no dust or scratches may harm its freshly washed paint… a garage never locked because, “locks only keep good people out.”  I will always remember the way the sun shines through the pine trees, glistening off the grass, and the old yellow sprinkler that looked like a tractor, a gift you received long ago from a friend. 
As I hurry out of the massive green Suburban and stretch my aching legs, I notice the garage door open.  Behind, I see you, standing tall in faded jeans and a flannel shirt.  In your rough, work-worn hands, you hold two popsicles, an orange for me and purple for my sister Ashley.  We walk over and hug you, never wanting to let go.  We ask if we can go fishing, but you tell us we can’t.  The fish will not bite until it’s dark.  We plead and beg all day, eventually settling for a short walk to the park. 
You lead us to the merry-go-round, and let us romp around so we can play on the multitude of magical tigers, cows, and monkey bars.  We eventually make our way over to the swings, you push us higher and higher, until you can’t push any harder.  Through all of our screaming and inevitable crying, you stay calm.  You comfort us when we get down, and calm us when we get angry.  Although we never noticed your devotion to our well-being when we were younger, we now realize just how important you were to developing our character.  Neither my parents nor any teacher could teach us what you could.  They still had lessons to learn, and you were one of the few who could teach them.  I was lucky enough to learn some of your lessons before even my father could. 
As the day goes on, we re-discover your amazing collection of board games, puzzles, and amazing coin machines.  After hours of listening to constant fighting, clicking of pieces, and the sound a small robotic arm moving a penny from its holder to a reservoir, somehow you still manage to go along with our constant requests to go fishing. 
The instant we climb into the dark grey interior of your favorite means of transportation, we turn into the poster children of every fishing magazine there has ever been.  Never once have Ashley and I been so relaxed in such a small space, but with you in the captain’s chair, we transform.  From two bickering kids, we turn into two mature people who simply want to fish.  Even after hours of relative silence, we maintain our business-like demeanor.  Mile after mile we listen to the smooth purr of the motor, and fish after fish, you maintain your position as the undisputed fishing champion of Lake Alexander. 
After we had enough of the cold, we would venture back to your house.  I ran to grab a five-gallon pail, and bring it back to the boat so we could load up the nightly catch.  You always tossed the fish into the bucket for us, mainly because our hands were too cold to hold on to the slimy bass, northern pike, and the occasional sunfish.  We hobbled out of your boat, and climbed back up the hill to bask in the warmth of the garage.  Once inside, you skinned and cleaned the fish with surgeon-like perfection with your rudimental but vast array of tools.  We both watched you in awe until we became too tired to continue.  You brought us back inside and tucked us into bed, making sure to be quiet, so no one else could awake from their slumber.
The following morning I always awoke to the comforting smell of Bisquick pancakes and the succulent smell of venison sausage.  When I was younger, I always jumped out of bed to join the feast, but as time passed, I grew slower to remove myself from the comfort of the feather topped, pull-out couch.  Nevertheless, I always rose to see you there, greeting me and my atrocious bed-head.  You tell me to sit, you shovel food onto my plate, and I eat and eat until I can no longer take another bite.  I turned to see you at the head of the table, with tabasco sauce drenched over your sausage.  I showed my disgust for the spicy sauce which you loved so much. Sometimes, you would try to sneak a drop into my pancakes or my eggs, but every time I was able to catch you. 
After breakfast, I would go out to the garage where you keep your old red truck.  I was careful to not scratch or dent any part of your perfect child, even though the tailgate had plenty of them.  Only recently had I found out the story behind the peppering of quarter-sized dents in the otherwise perfect truck.  I learned that you had drove through the night to aide my father in a rescue of our home.  A tree had fall in a horrible storm, and you were one of the few who could help.  You drove your truck through our yard to find a tree, massive in size, cutting its way through my room.  It fell straight through the roof and somehow stopped before crushing anything important.  You hooked a chain upon its thick branches, put your baby in four-wheel-drive, and started to pull.  The tree had started to move with your truck, and suddenly, snap.  The chain broke and slammed itself into the tailgate of your truck.  You proceeded to use a new chain, and add a new title to yourself, tree removal specialist.
You never accepted the replacement tailgate, “It’s a truck, it needs to be broken in somehow,” was always your response.  You never got mad at us, instead, you always found a way to change our ways without anger.  You always knew what to do, and what to say.  You have never created a bad memory for anyone to remember you by.  Never will I forget the plentiful life lessons you taught me.
Many years have passed since my memories of you began.  The boat you used to take me fishing in now sits idle in a garage.  The big green suburban sits in a junkyard, waiting to be picked apart.  Never again will it be used to carry a family, eagerly wanting to see an amazing couple.  The once perfect sign showing your presence passersby, has begun to decay, and the smooth blacktop has started to crack and fade.  Time no longer slows down when we approach your house.  The popsicles have long since melted, and the homemade pancakes have not made an appearance on the table.  The woodpiles begin to diminish, with no one there to replenish the once ominous amounts of wood.  The doors of your house, no longer protected by your simple saying.  Your wife of 62 years now sits alone in the house you shared with her.  Your children, now grown, still wait for their father to come home.  Your grandchildren, still growing, wait for a grandfather who was taken from them much too soon.  And your truck, a possession that showed your devotion to all things, sold; not to a family member or a close friend, but to a stranger.  Not because we didn’t want it, but because the thought that you are gone is too hard to realize every time we got in. 
You, you’re gone.  Put into a beautiful wooden urn, driven to the cemetery by your children and grandchildren in your truck, and buried by their own hands.  Your final resting place, according to your wishes, sits next to your mother, but still has room for your loving wife to be with you for eternity.  Yes, you actually are gone, but the signal man, he, will live forever.
In loving memory of James L. Doroff
December 7th, 1932- April 21st, 2015