In Memory of Grandpa Hilton

 My Grandpa Hilton died this morning at the age of 90. He has five living children, each of them brilliant and beautiful. My Mom is one of those five and she adored her father. He was PhD smart, comedian witty, lovingly spiritual, and a special sort of carefree wacky. He was perpetually cheerful, an incredible listener, and a brilliant talker. He had jokes and stories and dance moves that were so bad they were good.

I visited him many times when I was young and my grandparents lived in Las Vegas. We would drape a towel across the branches of a tree and spend hours eating pomegranates from his bountiful trees in the backyard. We spent so long out there that the juice would soak through the towel and drip onto the grass below, our fingers stained deep red. If we were lucky we could sit in the kitchen and he would harvest the fruit for us at the kitchen table, with the edge of the newspaper folded up so the arils didn’t escape to the floor. When I was in 4th grade we moved to Utah for six months so my Dad could help my grandparents build a home there. We rented a house nearby their future home. I lived upstairs, my grandparents lived downstairs. I don’t think the house had air conditioning because my room was always sweltering so I would head to the basement for the crisp air and a board game.

Traveling didn’t seem to be an issue and he attended more Westwood High School graduations than I did as he watched my seven siblings and me walk. He attended my temple endowment, wedding, college graduation, and even traveled across the country to New York for Alex’s baby blessing. At every event his camcorder would be looped around his hand, his lens trained on the action. He probably has more minutes and moments on tape than anyone will ever watch.

He could sit back calmly, or fall asleep even, in the midst of absolute pandemonium. He was seemingly unfazed by his 26 grandchildren running into and out of every area of his house and yard. Perplexed by our ability to inevitably tangle Newton’s Cradle, but calm and patient.

He would eat Shredded Wheat for breakfast. The giant biscuit kind without any redeeming frosting that makes it more than throat-stabbing straw. He performed exercises on the floor in the morning and flutter kick exercises will always make me think of him. He was always serving others in small ways but completely dedicated himself in big ways as well: he served a mission as a young man in Houston, and later served multiple missions with my Grandma. He served for years in the Mount Timpanogos Temple.

He was brilliant and his brain was a Rolodex, from nuclear physics to the gospel of Jesus Christ. He was faithful, kind, and happy.

I am going to miss him. I love him. He loved me. He told me and showed me.

Updated to add: If you want to read more (especially about the 58 years before I met him), the obituary can be found here.