We called him Pop-pop. I remember his face: sparse curly white hair, sun-tanned dark skin, rounded friendly nose, and smiling eyes beneath those ever-present shiny glasses. The sound of his stern voice still rings in my ears, at once both loving and unyielding. His familiar gait, his caring gaze, the genial smell of his favorite cologne; I remember all of these as if it were yesterday.

Victor Aresty, my grandfather, died almost two years ago of pancreatic cancer. When he passed away more than just my family grieved. Many people that I didn't recognize showed up at his funeral, telling us all what a wonderful man he was; a great man, who loved to help people.

At the beginning of World War II, Victor was appointed the title of mess sergeant. Despite having been forced into this position, he took it completely to heart. A comrade in arms wrote that he still remembers a cold and wintry day during the Battle of the Heurtgen Forest when "V.J." somehow miraculously prepared the best pancake breakfast they ever had; that he still remembered the wonderful smell and taste of that surprise breakfast during that horrible battle. He fed the men well; not a one dared face him upon failing to deliver the stew warm to the front line men.

My grandfather had a miraculous way of fixing things. If he felt that someone had mistreated him, they would soon learn how they could have done better. I still clearly remember the night, only a few months before his death, when we last went out for Chinese food as a family.

The lights were dim and yellow-tinged, the tempting scent of food was in the air, and there we were, all sitting quietly around this marmalade clothed table. The waitress had been absent for hours, or at least so it seemed, and my grandfather was growing angrier by the minute as the aroma of others' plates teased us.

Finally, the waitress lumbered out of the kitchen, traipsed over to our table, and dropped our food down in front of us. She casually returned to the kitchen, letting the door slam behind her. I lowered my face in preparation to eat, upon which I was greeted by a lump of greasy chicken rather than the succulent shrimp I anticipated. Having discovered this error, my grandfather literally jumped out of his chair, (seeming to have forgotten the pain in his side) flew over to the kitchen, and called the waitress out.

She appeared after a moment, hesitantly poking her head through the door. Calmly, but very firmly, he spoke. "Our order is wrong, so please bring him the shrimp he asked for. You should listen more carefully when taking orders." She nervously jittered, "Yes sir, right away. I'm so sorry." And so my order was fixed. He had a magic way of doing that; correcting others mistakes and making everyone feel better. He didn't accuse her of doing wrong, but rather gave her advice on how to do better in the future.

Generosity; few men understand it as well as he did. Whenever a good cause came to his attention, he would gladly give money to help out. If a friend needed funding, he would always be ready to donate if given a good reason. That is what brought Mark, the son of one of his good friends, to ask him for aid. Today Mark is a very successful real-estate developer in the Boston Area, but once he had no money or holdings. Driving past the dilapidated brownstones (old brick buildings of three or four stories) of Boston's run down South End one night, an idea came to him. He could tell that, although the buildings seemed to be in truly poor shape, the architecture was still good and the location was excellent. Given the right amount of funding, he could change this area of the city into a thriving area of the city. The one difficulty, however, was that he didn't have the wealth that would be necessary for this endeavor. That's where Victor came in.

One cold night when the full bright moon was high in the January sky, Mark rapped loudly on the door of a small brown-brick residence in Natick, Massachusetts. Shivering quietly in the frigid air, he pondered what he should say. How can I convince him? I know I've got something good here...I just hope he sees that. A warm blast of air signaled the opening of the brown oak door, and a familiar young face appeared at the door. "You must be cold, Mark. Come in and warm up; Mum's cooking chicken soup." Not willing to put up an argument, Mark let himself be ushered inside to the revitalizing smell of my grandmother's healing broth.

Into the dark living room they walked, where a toasty burnt-wood scent preceded the bright warmth of the fire. Sitting down on a black leather sofa before the fireplace, Victor turned to Mark. "So, you obviously must have come here for a reason. Is something wrong?" "No; I was hoping that I could convince you to loan me money to begin working in Real Estate." "Tell me what your plan is." Mark began to tell him all of his plans to change the South End. Victor simply nodded and watched him intently. After what seemed like an eternity, his explanation came to a close. My grandfather stood up slowly, walked over to Mark, and put his hand firmly on Mark's nervous shoulder. "What you've asked me for is fair; and you made a great case for the investment. I'll give you what you need."

Even as he was dying, he sacrificed. He struggled to hold onto the thread of life that remained, in spite of the terrible pain that was eating him up inside. I think my father summed him up best when he said, "He was a man that was concerned with the welfare of other people. He was a leader in the community, and a loving and caring family man." My grandfather gave without receiving, loved and taught us all. People of all kinds came to him and he changed their lives. He helped them to help themselves.