One week ago today, my tie with greatness was severed. John J. Fitzgerald, a member of the greatest generation in this country’s history and my grandfather, died Thursday after 82 years of life.

John grew up during the Depression and survived World War II, among other achievements, but it wasn’t until he passed that I realized why Tom Brokaw dubbed his generation the greatest.

John was born Dec. 23, 1919 on the South Side of Chicago, and his adolescence just happened to coincide with the worst economic period in this country’s history.

That might be why he joined the U.S. Navy in 1940. Two years later he was in the middle of the attack that brought the United States into the greatest war in world history.

He was on the U.S.S. Phoenix, a light infantry ship, on Dec. 7, 1941 when the Japanese attacked U.S. naval ships stationed in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. He would later tell his family that he was shaving aboard the Phoenix that morning when the first bombs shook the day that will live in infamy.

It was John’s estimation that the Phoenix was too small for the Japanese to target, and while most of his shipmates survived the attack, many fellow sailors did not. He remained in service throughout World War II, retiring in 1946 but later returned for a stint in the reserves.

After his service, he arrived back in Chicago on a Friday, and the following Monday started an apprenticeship in the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, following in the footsteps of his father, an electrician.

He took up the trade and never put it down until his retirement in 1987. He worked on some of the greatest projects in Chicago’s history, having a hand in the construction of O’Hare International Airport and McCormick place, the expansive lakefront convention center home to such events as the city’s annual auto show.

John had to work hard to support his wife and seven children, and his work ethic rubbed off on his children as all five of his sons joined the IBEW, and both his daughters married electricians.

However, no man can be defined by work alone, and along with the love he had for his family, John also loved the outdoors. In 1990 he bought a one-acre farm in Vandalia where he planned to garden, fish and hunt with his dog Greta.

But one slip would permanently alter his retirement plans. He was in the driveway of his Evergreen Park home, on a ladder, trimming an evergreen branch to make way for the moving truck when he fell and hit his head on the cement.

One misstep ended the retirement plans of perhaps the greatest person I’ve ever known. At 70 years old, he was moving downstate to live on his own and test happiness, and perhaps even immortality, to their limits.

At 82 years old, he had spent most of the previous 12 years in a nursing home, unable to carry on much of a conversation, much less carry a hunting rifle.

For 12 years, it was easy to forget how great a person my grandfather was. After all, I was only 10-years-old when he became disabled.

In fact, it wasn’t until his wake that I realized how many lives he had touched as a serviceman, electrician and, most importantly, as a family man.

The funeral home was lined with more than 90 flower arrangements, their overflow spilling out into the hallway. One bouquet was from Chicago Mayor Richard Daley, or at least sent by his office.

Alderman Edward Burke, a senior member of the Chicago City Council, made an appearance. So too did U.S. Sen. Dick Durbin; Michael Madigan, speaker of the Illinois House; and a duo of suburban mayors.

But none of those visits, no matter how prestigious, and none of the flower arrangements, no matter how ornate, even hinted at John. J. Fitzgerald’s greatness.

At the grave site Monday, as the Navy representative cued Taps on his government-issued boombox, it was the tears of his family members, the pained expressions on their faces that told of John J. Fitzgerald’s life.

They spoke of greatness.