Eulogy for Grandpa: Writing About the Grandfather You Knew

My name is Kelsey, and I’m Walt Lindqvist’s granddaughter. Thank you all for being here with us today, to remember and celebrate my grandpa’s life.

To someone who never met him, Grandpa Walt might’ve seemed quiet. He was a dairy farmer with hands like baseball mitts, and he wasn’t one for speeches. Before noon, you’d be lucky to hear more than ten words from him. But you’d hear him whistling hymns in the barn, and you’d see him wearing that same seed-company cap he wore for thirty years. He showed his love by doing things for us, not by saying it.

Grandpa was born right on the Lindqvist family farm near Viroqua, and that’s where he spent his whole life. He got up at 4:30 every morning to milk cows for 52 years. He met my grandma, June, at a church supper, and they were married in 1958. Together, they raised my dad Tom, my uncle Dale, and my aunt Karen. The farm and his family were his world.

There are some things Grandpa loved that I’ll always remember. He listened to the Milwaukee Brewers on the radio every summer. He drank black coffee from a green thermos, no cream or sugar, ever. He played cribbage for a penny a point, and he never let any of us win on purpose. His answer to every worry was, “Weather’s fine, cows are fine,” which meant don’t fret, just keep going.

One of my favorite memories is when I was nine, and a calf was born in a snowstorm at two in the morning. Grandpa woke me up and handed me a flashlight, and together we rubbed her dry with straw. He let me name her, and I picked Pancake. He wrote PANCAKE on the barn chalkboard, and she lived to be fourteen. That was Grandpa—passing on trust and a sense of belonging, even at 2 a.m. in a snowstorm.

When I left for college in Minneapolis, Grandpa wrote me a letter in pencil every single Sunday for four years. He always ended with, “Weather’s fine, cows are fine, come home when you can.” I kept every letter. That was his way of letting me know I was never too far from home.

He also had a way of making us smile, sometimes without meaning to. He drove his old ’88 Buick so slowly that people joked you could walk to church faster. He’d just say he was saving the brakes. That was Grandpa—quietly stubborn, with his own logic about the world.

I want to thank Grandma June, who loved him for sixty-eight years. Thank you to Uncle Dale and Aunt Patty, who cared for him on the farm this past year, and to the hospice nurses who made the long drive out every week. You gave him comfort and dignity, and we’re grateful.

Grandpa taught me to do the work nobody sees, and to do it early. I’m a teacher now, and I’m in my classroom by 6:30 every morning because of him. He showed us that steady love and hard work matter most.

Every morning, Grandpa whistled “How Great Thou Art” while he milked the cows. That’s the sound I hear when I think of him—the hymn, the barn, the quiet strength.

Grandpa, weather’s fine. Cows are fine. We’ll come home when we can. Thank you for everything.

My name is Liam, and I am Graham Doyle’s grandson. All of us here knew him as Pop. We’ve come together to say goodbye and to remember a man who meant a lot to each of us in his own quiet way.

Pop grew up in Wagga Wagga, New South Wales. At twenty, he was called up for National Service and spent a year in Vietnam. He never spoke much about that time, and I think we all respected his silence. When he came home, he settled in Geelong, married my nan, Maureen, and built a life for his family—my mum, Sharon, and my uncle Craig. For more than forty years, he worked as a carpenter, steady and careful, always showing up early and doing the job right the first time.

Pop loved his shed. He loved listening to the cricket on the radio, playing lawn bowls on Saturdays, and each year, marching with his mates on Anzac Day. These were simple things, but they mattered most to him.

One of my clearest memories is from when I was twelve. We built a billy cart together in his shed. It took six Saturdays because he made me sand every edge twice. I remember complaining, and he just said, “Do it once, do it right, mate.” That was Pop—patient, careful, teaching by example. From when I was ten, he’d take me to the Anzac Day dawn service. When I asked him why we went, he told me, “So someone remembers them.”

He taught us all to do things properly, to remember where we came from, and to honor those before us. He leaves behind a family and a community shaped by those quiet lessons.

Thank you, Nan, for being by his side. Thank you to the palliative care nurses who cared for him, and to his mates from the RSL who are here today.

As Pop would want, I’ll end with the line from the Ode: “We will remember them.”

Thank you, Pop. You did it right. Rest easy.