Love Letters…My Other Grandparents

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Love Letters…My Other Grandparents

Posted On January 28, 2015 By chromedust And has 28 Comments

He was perhaps the biggest man I’d ever seen. Hands so large that they were gigantic in proportion to anything he attempted to hold. We’d sit at the breakfast table watching in wonder as he slowly turned the lid off the honey jar. He was a bee farmer who prided himself over his fresh honey. After pouring a generous amount of that golden goo over his pancakes, I’d watch as he struggled with those wide fingers, attempting to pull out some of the floating honeycomb. Finally there was success, and after a nibble of that honey soaked wax, he leaned his head back with eyes closed, savoring what his hard work had produced.

My ‘other’ grandparents had retired to Florida when I was a small boy. My father had purchased their farm, a little box white house on a hill surrounded with acres of wide-open fields. Compared to our life on Pike Forest Road, Florida seemed like a far away exotic land. Thus our yearly trip to visit my ‘Other’ grandparents became a somewhat celebrated event.

Owning and breeding bees for their honey seemed completely foreign and frightful occupation to my adolescent mind. Particularly while watching my grandmother tweezing stingers out of my grandfather’s chest, arms and hands while scolding him over his refusal to wear protection. He laughed, waving those big hands in the air. If there was any pain involved with the bee sting removal, he seemed oblivious to it. My grandfather had irreverence towards life that was irresistible for my young church going ears. Sitting in his favorite chair chain smoking, he would flick his cigarette at the overflowing ashtray, sometimes hitting it and sometimes missing. His voice, with its deep throaty gravel, cracked the air as he affectionately called my mom ‘Red’. Something about him reminded me of Lee Marvin from the movie ‘Cat Ballou’. He called his extravagance ‘just following tradition’. Back in Indiana, he would go to our local McCandless grocery, and fill a giant cardboard box with bag after bag of candy. It was decadence like I’d never seen the likes of.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, my ‘other’ grandmother was articulate, choosing her words with care, rather than just talking. Even at my young age, I recognized this as being ‘different’ than everyone I ‘d come accustomed to. She was a writer and once wrote a short story whose main character was a boy named Eddie. It made me feel special and sort of famous. The other women her age that I knew from church wore their hair teased, sprayed and without a hint of makeup. In sharp contrast, she wore her hair very short. When she dressed up, she wore pearls and a healthy dash of bright red lipstick. In her black leather handbag was a supply of clove chewing gum – far from the ordinary juicy-fruit everyone else chewed. My ‘Other’ grandmother recognized my passion for expressing myself through watercolors and chalk. She didn’t just celebrate my efforts, but encouraged me in a special way by calling me artistic. She bought me countless illustration workbooks, paints, colored pens, and pencils. Imagine the excitement I felt when I’d pull out of our mailbox that package addressed to me in her pen. Breathless, I’d race up that long dusty rock driveway to my bedroom. Carefully opening the brown paper wrapping whose return address was faraway Tampa, Florida.

Near the end of my grandfather’s life, he kept talking about how he simply didn’t know what grandma would do without him. Who would take care of her? Everyone just looked at each other without worry as she had always been a strong and independent woman – ahead of her time. But after my grandfather was gone and the years passed, she became ‘different.’ She became distant and forgetful. She would get lost, once spending hours confused in a department store. Knowledge about Alzheimer’s in those days was limited at best. I thought I would have lots of time to tell her how much she influenced me and how important her encouragement had been. I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to tell both of them how special they made me feel. As I get older, I understand more and more how precious these memories are, and how those childhood smiles – encouraged by our beloved elders – need to last a lifetime, as we remember those who have left us. I remember My ‘Other’ Grandparents and all the gifts of love they gave me. Pass it on.

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