If my grandfather, Arch Pummill, had been the kind of man to spend money on a funeral, this is the sort of eulogy I would have given him. He was a private man who spent money very carefully. A funeral was not on his list of expenditures.

Arch Pummill, Papa Arch to me, was a mountain of a man. His word held weight. Once he made a decision, he stuck to it. He was firm, constant, and consistent. When my entire world turned topsy-turvy with my parents' divorce, he became a rock I could cling to. It didn't matter how rough the seas. He was a solid thing.

He believed in education. Not just academics, but what the natural world can show you if you have the eyes to see. He taught me to identify trees by their bark and leaves. He taught me to recognize birds by their songs. At dusk, in my grandparent's big back yard, he would throw a garden glove into the air to make the bats dip and dive. And he'd radiate joy while I raced around to catch fireflies. He had a massive garden. He taught me about planting and harvesting. He taught me that good things come from hard work. And it's ok to get a little dirty in the process. He taught me to be curious and to discover my own answers.

Whenever I faced a choice between doing the safe thing or chasing a risky idea, he advocated for the risky idea. His support and belief in me gave me strength and courage in some very dark places. And if I failed, he picked me up, dusted me off, and would tell me he was proud that I tried. And that I needed to go try again.

He believed you should earn your way in the world. He believed in setting goals and sticking to them. When I was learning to ride a bike, my mother, his daughter Liz, told me "Straight and strong, just go straight and strong." I'm sure she learned that at her Daddy's knee. She passed away earlier this year. And she faced her death with strength and a commitment to do it her way, whether it made sense to anyone else. I was encouraged to get on board or get out of the way. In this, I saw her father, my Grandfather, my Papa Arch.

I will miss him. And I will miss his voice telling me to stop dithering and get on with it.