Grandparents Day was in September. Most boomers are grandparents or at least had grandparents, so even though this essay is a month late, maybe it will bring back positive memories.
As oldest of five, I was in charge of my siblings, especially the youngest two. If Eddy fell down and skinned a knee, I was responsible. If Susie climbed the ladder in back of the garage, it was my fault. When those two got into mischief, I got in trouble with Dad.
But when I was twelve, I began spending occasional weekends at Grandma and Grandpa Harry’s farm—under the guise of helping them.
In retrospect, I believe my grandparents noticed all the responsibilities I shouldered and thought I should have time to simply be a kid.
Harry became my grandfather when my widowed grandmother remarried. The day I met him, he carried in an old doll stroller and doll house he’d found in the barn and cleaned up. He gave them to Susie and me. At ten, I thought I was too old for dolls, but I adored Grandpa Harry immediately because he was nice to us. He never yelled, he laughed at our jokes, and he enjoyed spending time with his adopted grandchildren.
When I stayed at Grandma and Grandpa Harry’s house, I could sit and read for hours on end with no one telling me to “Go see what those two are fighting about,” or “Keep an eye on the baby.” If I wanted to talk, they listened. If I wanted to help with chores, they welcomed my assistance, but didn’t scold me if I made a mistake.
One time I was sitting in the living room, looking at a picture of a white house surrounded by a picket fence covered in roses. I was imagining myself in that setting. Grandma asked if I was homesick. “No!” I responded vehemently. “I was just thinking of a story I want to write.”
Grandpa Harry took me with him when he milked the cows. I helped pour the warm, fresh milk into pans for the feral cats that roamed the farm and kept the mice away. He laughed when I tried to catch the felines. They always got away. Grandpa never raised his voice, never grew impatient, and never criticized me.
I helped Grandma bake cookies and, wonder of wonders, I could eat all I wanted. At my house, we were each allowed one fresh cookie when Mom baked; the rest were put away for school lunches.
Grandma taught me how to embroider. She patiently showed me how to cross stitch, make French knots, and back stitches. She told me I was sweet and smart and beautiful. I knew I wasn’t beautiful, but she made me feel like I was.
More important than eating cookies, spending time away from responsibilities, or learning needlework was the gift of being valued for who I was. They treated me like I was someone special. That’s what grandparents contribute to young lives—unconditional acceptance.
I grew to admire, respect, and enjoy the company of older adults. They taught me how to be kind, loving, and patient, which influenced my career choice.
Now I tell my grandchildren they’re smart and sweet and beautiful. I want them to feel special. That’s the gift my grandparents gave to me.
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