Remembering My Grandpa

Rather than feel sad, I know my grandpa would want us to use this time together as a chance to reconnect, to laugh—and if I’m being honest—he probably wouldn’t want us sharing stories about him. But Grandpa, you don’t get a say in that right now. So I’d like to share just a few things about the man we all loved so deeply.

My grandpa loved making small wager bets. I used to grumble about them—mostly because I never carried cash, and he only accepted cash. Losing meant a whole ordeal: drive to the ATM, withdraw a $20, beg a store clerk to break it into fives. And since I was in college in Oregon, I’d make a weekend trip to Portland to see my mom, grab a free envelope and stamp, and have her mail the winnings for me.

It was a whole process.

But honestly? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

He loved Wisconsin sports—especially UWGB women’s basketball. He’d poke fun at Oregon’s uniforms, telling me they were way too flashy. He loved golf even more. He’d bring anyone along—me, Uncle Greg, even Grandma, who he once bought lessons for just so she could join him on the course.

He had simple tastes: chicken tenders at the golf clubhouse, Al’s Hamburgers, Sammy’s Pizza, Kwik Trip muffins, and bags of microwave popcorn.

Not everyone knows this, but I lived with Grandma and Grandpa on Creek Valley Lane for a few months each school year during middle and high school. Most nights, you’d find me and Grandpa in side-by-side recliners in his office—both doing homework.

Seriously.

He was earning his bachelor’s degree while running the county.

We’d split a warm bag of popcorn, with Monday Night Football playing softly in the background.

I’ll never forget those nights.

When it came to self-reliance, my grandpa had the pride of a lion. While I was living with him and Grandma, my mom decided I’d be in charge of taking the garbage bins to the curb. But if I hadn’t done it by the time he got home, he’d already be out there—handling it himself.

These days, my other grandparents will call me when they need help with tech stuff, a hand at the workbench, or even a little neighborhood detective work. But not Grandpa. I never got that call from him—he never wanted to impose. That was just who he was: quietly capable, stubbornly independent, and always more comfortable giving help than asking for it.

Tom never talked down to people. He always treated others with respect. I know this because he’s called me “Mr. Smet” since I was five years old. I got to tag along with him to events—getting a front-row seat to how he carried himself in public life. Always gracious. Always kind.

If you ever wondered whether Tom was a good husband, here’s what I’ll tell you: for over 20 years, he honored his wife’s mother in his annual Christmas letters. In 2004, he wrote, “We were fortunate to have Urs’ mother move in with us about a month ago.” That’s just who he was.

When Grandma and I were in Florida, he’d text her every single day with a little report of what he did. It was honestly so sweet. I think deep down, he just didn’t want her to think he was being lazy—like anyone would ever think that about him!

Every time we went out to eat, someone would come up to shake his hand—someone I didn’t know, but who clearly knew him. And every time, he’d introduce me with pride. He was a local celebrity—not because he sought recognition, but because he gave so much of himself to the community.

After high school, he’d always ask if I was still running long distances. I’d say, “No Grandpa, just short ones.” But he kept asking, probably hoping I’d start up again. And it worked. I ran the last two Bellins with him.

One of his favorite stories to tell was about the 2007 Bellin 5K, when he challenged me to run it under an hour. I was 11 years old. I wasn’t sure we could do it. He was. And he was right. We did it. I like to think maybe that was his favorite race.

Last June, we ran the Bellin again. As we approached the finish line, I raised my hands and flashed an “8” and a “1”—his age—so he’d feel celebrated. We crossed the line together, arms in the air like Rocky Balboa.

Later, I learned he had the fastest time in his age group. Again.

Afterward, we went to Bay Family Restaurant. He ordered a chocolate chip pancake—something I used to get with him after races when I was little, though I try to eat healthier now.

A few days before he passed, my mom handed me a manila envelope from Grandpa. Inside was his race registration—his last one.

He wanted me to run it.

So I will.

The last time I saw my grandpa, he could still walk. I had come by to help Grandma with some tech stuff and to look through old photos—I’ve gotten into framing lately. I brought two photos I had framed. One of him holding me as a baby, both of us smiling wide. The other of him helping me put on a baseball glove.

I watched him look at those photos.

We spent the rest of the time watching the final few minutes of the Wisconsin vs. Michigan basketball game. The Badgers won. We joked about him running out of space for framed Packers memorabilia on his ceiling.

He said he didn’t want to overdo it—as Grandma and I both stared at four walls filled corner to corner.

But those walls spoke. The walls of his office, his study, his man cave.

They told the story of a life well lived.

Congratulations, Grandpa, on one incredible life.

You ran your race with grit, with heart—and you finished strong.

Four lessons I learned from him:

1. Attitude is everything.

2. 15 minutes early is on time.

3. Judge people by their character.

4. Greatness is found in consistency.