Kenneth Godwin

Kenneth James Godwin, loving husband, father, uncle, brother, grandfather, great-grandfather and friend to all, passed away holding the hand of his only daughter on April 27, 2020. He was 94 years old. He died of complications of COVID-19, and that will forever break the hearts of all who knew and loved him, but to us, he is infinitely more than a pandemic statistic.

My grandpa was a towering giant of a man. He was six feet tall, and to my little girl self, he may as well have been bumping his head against the sky. He was larger than life in every respect, most particularly in the stories he told, which were always some combination of truth and wild fabrication, because he lived by the unshakable motto, "never let the truth stand in the way of a good story".

He met "his sweetie", Norma Irene Colvard, at a skating rink when they were teenagers, and from that day forward they were inseparable. He was with her at The Calvin Theater, where he worked as an usher, the night Pearl Harbor was attacked. He often told the story of how he stopped the film, raised the lights, and made the announcement that all soldiers were to immediately return to duty. He spent his whole life running into danger, first as a radio repairman in the US Navy during WWII, and then as a career firefighter proudly serving the Dearborn Fire Department for over 40 years.

We loved to visit Gramps when he was working, mostly at Dearborn Fire Station 2 on Outer Drive. We loved the way the firehouse smelled, a combination of diesel fuel and whatever meal was being cooked for the guys that night. We were fascinated with the giant tower where the hoses hung to dry. My grandpa would blow up air splints and put them on our arms and legs, and when a call came in, which it invariably did, we'd hobble our way back to the car, and he'd put on his helmet, boots and fire coat and instantly take charge. He was The Chief to his men, but he was always just Grampsy to us.

When he turned 65, he was forced to retire, because that was how it was done at the time. The ladder trucks drove him home with sirens blaring, and the whole neighborhood came out to celebrate his big day. I got to ride in the ladder truck, and I could tell he wasn't happy, but he was certainly proud of the send-off they gave him. He told the story of the Ford Rotunda fire so vividly that you felt like you were standing right next to him when the building collapsed. He missed that job for the rest of his life.

When his firefighting days were done, my grandpa devoted his time between his painting and wallpapering business, and my grandma's antique store. He taught me and my sister and all of my cousins to paint. Every one of us can paint a perfect line without taping off, and he was very proud of that fact. He was happiest when he was busy, and he was busy all the time. But he was never too busy to spend time with us. He was a devoted family man, and his love for us was unparalleled.

My grandpa loved my grandma more than anything else in this world. He took her side in every situation, even when she was dead wrong, and I think that's how they managed to stay married for nearly 75 years. He loved her unconditionally from the time they were 15 years old. He called her "Babes" and "My Sweetie". They were fiercely devoted to one another. He sat next to her on the couch and held her hand every single day.

I had the great privilege of watching my grandpa hold my grandma's hand all day the day that she died. I took a picture when he wasn't looking, and it's one of my favorite pictures of him. Of them. Of a love that spanned a lifetime, and then kept going to the edges of the universe and whatever lies beyond. I know that she was with him as he was dying, and that she was there to greet him when he went barreling from this world to the next. Knowing that they are together again brings us great joy, even as we grapple with this tragic loss.

We are so thankful that my mom was able to gown, mask and glove up to be with her dad as this horrible virus took him from this earth. He was terribly afraid of dying, and she was terribly afraid of losing him. They faced their worst fears together. They were the best of friends.

My grandpa laughed with every cell in his body, modeled integrity in everything he did, and radiated kindness almost all the time. He was the happiest person I've ever known, and that continued right through to his last breath. To him, life was always a grand adventure, and if you didn't share that opinion, he'd make it his personal mission to change your mind. He made every single day better.

When we were kids, he brought silly little presents every time he visited - like rubber finger puppets, Mexican jumping beans, and dime-store rings - and on the rare occasions that he forgot, he'd let you choose between a whole dollar bill or all the change in his pocket. (The change was always the better choice). He could spit a watermelon seed halfway across a double lot, and convinced us that he held the world record for watermelon spitting "straight up until they took it out of the book". He loved a good meatloaf sandwich, a bowl of cornflakes, or a slider from Miller's. He was a southpaw with a killer arm, and he'd happily play catch with you all day.

He beat us a thousand times in croquet, helped us master Yahtzee, Skittles, Poker, Hearts and Scrabble, collected rare coins and glass canes, and insisted on owning a red telephone which he kept in a basement room and referred to as "The Hotline". He once told me that I should never answer that phone, because it might be the President calling him for a special mission. I believed him.

He grew gigantic peonies by the back patio, and tiny cherry tomatoes along his chain link fence. He pushed us on a tire swing for hours, and kept that swing long after a tornado took down the willow tree it hung from, along with most of the trees in his yard. He drew pictures of Mickey Mouse all over the attic floor to amuse us, and they were still there when we packed up the house after Gram died. He "kept the snakes away" with a belt of Crown Royal every night. He had a scar on his neck, and when you asked him about it, he'd tell you an elaborate and very convincing lie about taking shrapnel during WWII.

My grandpa claimed that he once drove all the way home backwards from a local bar on a dare. I never doubted this, because he could drive backwards better than anyone I ever knew. Even with a trunk full of ladders.

My grandpa loved traditions. He took us to the Thanksgiving Day Parade in Detroit every single year. He'd set up his tallest painting ladders and stretch out a scaffold across them. We'd sit in a row drinking hot chocolate from his old metal thermos. It was bitter cold some years, but we never seemed to notice. I wish I could remember the last time we went...but the funny thing about life is you never know it's the last time while it's actually happening.

My grandpa loved the Tigers, his wife, his one precious daughter, his two beautiful granddaughters, and all his great-grandchildren. He loved all the people we loved, and welcomed everyone with open arms. He loved picnics, card games, black and white movies, betting on the harness races, Broadway musicals, travel, game shows, gambling, Carol Burnett, strawberry ice cream, and every animal he ever met - nearly all of which he named Terry.

He loved us madly all his life. And we loved him right back. We always will.

My grandpa was a towering giant of a man. At least that's the way I'll always remember him. And sometimes the truth is a pretty great story all by itself.

Plans for a proper fireman's memorial will have to wait. In the meantime, if you're looking for a way to honor his extraordinary life, pour yourselves a glass of Crown Royal and send up a toast to the happiest guy God ever made, or donate in his name to your favorite charity. He'd be thrilled that you remembered him.