I was four years old when my dear grandpa “Poody” woke me in the middle of the night by sitting on my bed. My four-year-old mind didn’t wonder what he was doing at my house or why he wasn’t at the hospital. Instead, I listened to what he had to say. We adored each other. When I was at his house, I followed him around while he dug potatoes, painted, or organized his immaculate garage workshop. Every tool was in its place and nuts, bolts, and screws were carefully sorted into jelly and baby food jars, then screwed onto their lids which were nailed into the workshop walls. He would…