My Grandfather, James W. Logie

This was my first post-tenure summer, and I'm not sure what exactly, this is supposed to feel like. I just know that for me the summer will be memorable chiefly for the loss of my paternal grandfather, James W. Logie. He was a surgeon. Earlier this summer he was involved in a car accident that was followed by a massive stroke. I wrote this for a memorial service in August. I did my best to capture what was special about him.



My Grandfather’s Hands

My grandfather’s hands held my grandmother’s young hands as they exchanged rings. My grandfather’s hands held each of their three children. And their children. And their children’s children.

My grandfather’s hands saved thousands of lives, fingertips guiding scalpel to first cut, then heal bodies sick, bodies broken.

My grandfather’s hands held my grandmother’s hands as she passed from this life. My grandfather’s hands held my grandfather’s head.

My grandfather’s hands tied the most meticulous flies, and then sent them skittering across the surface of the Pere Marquette River, many swallowed by trout and never seen again, many more reeled in and placed in his creel.

My grandfather’s hands held the hands of his second wife for forty-eight years — longer than most first marriages. My grandfather’s hands embraced the new family forged by that marriage.

My grandfather’s hands tied the bowties he wore — a personal stylistic signature that always left him looking like a gentleman. He lived up to the look.

My grandfather’s hands held the guns that he used to chase tiny birds around the woods of northern Michigan. My grandfather’s hands fed treats to the dogs that were supposed to help him hunt, but instead became his pets.

My grandfather’s hands were the first part of him to breach the water in his pool, and they pulled him through the water for years of fitness and health.

My grandfather’s hands sent music pouring from the speakers of the organ in his living room. My grandfather’s hands recorded the off-color lyrics to the songs he sang with the friends he kept and commiserated with for decades upon decades.

My grandfather’s hands filled the glasses of his friends. His father’s motto was “Don’t forget to drink.” My grandfather honored his father, and always seemed at home in the role of gracious host.

My grandfather’s hands, having seen eighty years of life, gripped the shaft of a club that drove a tiny white ball directly into the hole, and they did this five more times, so no one could claim it was a fluke.

My grandfather’s hands, having seen ninety years of life, picked up paintbrushes and captured scenes of the countrysides and places that had caught his eye over the many years he lived and loved living.

My grandfather’s hands are still now. But we are all here because we were all touched by my grandfather’s hands.


— John Hoult Logie, Jr.