My grandfather was born in Honaunau on the Big Island on Dec. 29, 1914.

His name was Torao Yoshimura, the third of five children born to coffee farmers who had immigrated to Hawaii from Kumamoto, Japan. His kindergarten teacher gave him the English name Ted.

His birth was registered with the Japanese consulate. Back then, families had plans to move back to Japan. Few did.

He was born in a year of global change.

The Ford Motor Co. raised the minimum wage for an eight-hour workday from $2.34 an hour to an unheard-of $5 an hour. Baseball legend Babe Ruth made his major league debut. The Honolulu Zoo opened. The first taxicabs in Hawaii appeared. The first cargo ship through the Panama Canal carried Hawaiian sugar. The 35mm camera made photography more accessible. And World War I erupted.

My grandfather grew up in the coffee fields of Honaunau in south Kona. He met my grandma there, too; they crashed the prom. He fished, built cars and played baseball. He even played the taiko drum at bon dances.

During his life he worked a lot of odd jobs. He made and sold dried opelu at the fish market. He picked strawberries and grapes in California. He sold bread and Shasta soda. He ran restaurants in Honaunau and Waipahu. He ran a lunch wagon. He was a fry cook at the restaurant in Bowling City, famous for his tripe stew. He was a bartender in Waikiki. And he delivered milk just before the war.

But this wasn’t the grandpa I knew.

My memories are different. He humored me as a kid when I would take him and my grandma on “tours” of our house (and ask for a tip after it was over). He would pick me up from school with either a chocolate-covered cake donut or Japanese chewing gum from Shirokiya. He loved lemon meringue pie; he wouldn’t eat custard pie.

I didn’t know the man who made tripe stew or played the shamisen. I never knew his temper. My grandpa was the one who took me to league games at bowling alleys and introduced me to Happy Meals at McDonald’s.

He bought my parents a pendulum wall clock that’s hung in our Kalihi home since 1972.

The other day it finally stopped ticking.

And so did my grandpa.

He died on Monday morning at St. Francis Hospice, in the same bed and room where my grandmother, his wife, died a few years earlier.

At 97, he lived a long, vibrant life. He had three children, all of whom had kids, too. They all lived close by, once right in the same building complex. We were lucky to know our grandparents, to get picked up from school or taken to Shirokiya for lunch with them. They fed us, scolded us, hugged us, told us we were getting fat or too skinny.

All four of my grandparents are now gone. And it’s a little strange to think I won’t have that relationship anymore.

They’re not like your parents, who you respect but would never admit it. They’re the fun version of your parents, the ones who slid you extra money at your graduation and bought you cookies when you’re supposed to be on a diet.

I’m lucky I got to know my grandparents, heard their stories and learned their secrets.

I hope you are all that lucky, too.