My Grandpa Pace

Vernal Dean Pace was born on October 3, 1925. He was the youngest of eleven children born to Amos Franklin and Emma Margaret Pace. He grew up on a farm in the small Summit County town of Hoytsville, Utah. Although several of his brothers went off to fight in WWII, Vernal did not. As the only son remaining on the farm, he was granted a draft exemption to help his father with the work.

In the midst of the war years, he met and courted my grandmother, Dona Maxwell. They married in the Salt Lake Temple on October 11, 1944. Living on the farm in Hoytsville, they had six children--four girls, two boys. The fourth child is my mother. When she was eight, the family moved down to Las Vegas.

Vernal was a man of many trades--he was a farmer, a dairyman, a trophy maker, a Bamix blender salesman. I remember him as a wonderfully funny bald man, who told jokes, asked silly questions like "What is your name, Keryn?" (to which the answer was always, "Grandpa, you just said my name!"), and had the coolest pool in the whole city. (The pool sides and bottom, instead of being painted light blue, were painted black. So awesome.)

Because of the war, Vernal wasn't able to serve a mission as a youth. He very much wanted to, however, and in 1987 he and Dona left for the New Zealand Auckland Mission. They served on the North Island of New Zealand for six months, and then were transferred to a little tiny island in the South Seas called Niue. They spent the rest of their mission here, loving the people and the culture. (Interesting fact: 8.8% of the population of Niue Island (total pop. <1,500) is LDS.)

For three months after they returned from their mission in 1989, Grandpa and Grandma lived in a RV trailer next to our house while they waited to get their house fixed up. I have many fond memories of that time, of being able to run "next" door to talk to them about my day or to get a cookie. I remember showing off my newly-made pioneer dress to Grandpa, and his sweet compliments on how pretty I looked.

On July 5, 1989, Grandpa was killed in a car accident near his new home. I remember that day very well--I was in the dining room having my art lesson from my uncle when the call came. I remember hearing my mother tell me, trying to understand it, and then deciding that I couldn't think about it--it was too hard. I went upstairs to my room and picked up the nearest book and started to read, trying not to think. (Reading has always been my escape.)

I remember wondering how my grandmother was going to survive without Grandpa (she had been in the hospital just three days earlier with heart problems). (She's still going strong at almost 83 years old.) I remember wondering how it felt to lose your daddy. (Which I now know. It always hurts a little bit.)

And I remember feeling grateful that we knew we would see him again. It's been twenty years, Grandpa. I love you and miss you.