Pop-pop:

If you asked anyone in this room about Hiroyoshi Shimazu, I know they would have wonderful things to say about him, and fond memories of the time they spent with him. He was a loved husband, friend, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and much more.

If you asked me, I would tell you that despite not being biologically connected to me—that he was my grandfather—the only grandfather my brothers and I ever had. I would tell you that from the day each of us was born, he treated us and loved us as grandsons—and so, we called him Pop-pop.

If you asked any of us what we remembered about him, we would all have different memories of the man we admired and loved. My cousins Mike and Kevin Watanabe could tell you about the man they called ‘gramps’. If you asked the Shimazu boys, they could tell you about playing poker with grandpa and how special that was to them. If you asked me and my brothers what we remember about him, I would tell you that I remember someone who seemed to care and love us without trying—like it was natural to him—even though he didn’t have to. I would tell you about how Pop-pop hid Easter eggs in the front yard of the house when we were kids, and how one year when one egg was never found—how he searched for hours trying to find it. I would tell you how he shaped and designed our pinewood derby cars; how he spent hours on them, how they won best design every year, and how it was something he seemed to enjoy—like it was never a burden.

I would tell you Pop-pop made my grandmother—my Nana—laugh every time I saw them together; how he tried so hard to make her laugh, how she seemed to adore his sense of humor even after all these years, and how she laughed like a teenager every time he made a joke—like they had just met. I would tell you that in 27 years the worst thing I heard him say about another human being was to call him “Ponky head” on the freeway. I would tell you I never heard him raise his voice or even say anything remotely rude to anyone, and how he always treated my grandmother with respect and patience. Anger was never something I associated with Pop-pop.

I would tell you how he would sit and tell my brothers and I stories from his days in the service; how he shared with us what it was like to come the mainland for the first time as an enlisted military man, what it was like to not know which segregated bathroom to use, or how he fell asleep on duty one day under a table and got scolded by his commanding officer.

If you asked me, I would tell you how much he loved our grandmother, how much he loved being her husband, and how much his Ohana meant to him.

Then, if you asked me what Pop-pop taught me, I would tell you that in 27 years he never sat me down to give me advice, never gave me a lecture, never told me what to do—that just wasn’t Pop-pop. But, despite that, I would tell you that he taught me more than he probably realized. I would tell you that he taught me that it is only the significant people in your life that make you significant—so you should make sure to always appreciate them and realize you are only you because of them. I would tell you that he taught me that in most cases patience and gentleness are the main ingredients to the solution. I would tell you he taught me that laughter is more important than anything—how if throughout your life, you can always manage to laugh deeper than you hurt—then things will always be okay.

But if you gave me minute, I would tell you that what the main thing he taught me was the meaning of Ohana. I would tell you that Pop-pop showed me that Ohana is about finding people in this world to spend time with—to celebrate with—to grieve with—and it doesn’t matter where they come from or how they got here as long as you love and look after one another. I would tell you how Pop-pop taught me that Ohana is not inherited, no, it is not a given in life—it is something you have to make, create, and work hard to keep. I would tell you how he taught me that Ohana is more about endurance than anything else—and that once you find it, you should never take it for granted. Then I would tell you that how taught me all of this without trying—how he taught me all of this just by being himself. That is what made him so special.

And finally, the last thing I would tell you is that at the end of my life—if there is even one person in this world that admires me half as much as his family admire him—one person that cherishes the memories, cherishes the Christmas Eve’s, the pictures, the time we had together—then I will count myself more blessed than I deserve to be.

After all of this—after everything I told you about him—if you asked me what I would say to him if I could see him one more time, I wouldn’t even have to think about it. I would say, Pop-pop:

Thank you, Arigato, and Mahalo.