Grandparents

The hardest part of life is losing those family members that we love.

That was the conversation that my son and I had the other night at bed time. And it really hit me because he said it with tears in his eyes.

We are going to see my grandmother next week, who is 94 years old. And there is a good probability that this might be the last time that we get to see her. And as hard as it is on me, because I will be saying goodbye to my last grandparent, this will be the 3rd loss for my boys in about a year.

But as I sat in the floor, holding my son’s hand and praying that I could find the right words to say to him, I was reminded that my boys ask me these questions for a reason. So, I took a deep breath and begin to talk about life and death and that we should focus on the today and not worry about tomorrow. And as we talk, that lead to other questions and more of me trying to find the right words.

I tried my best to bring my son comfort. I tried to give the best answers to his questions that I could. And once he seemed to accept my answers, I wiped away his tears and he wiped away mine. He laid his head on his pillow and holding my hand whispered “Dad, the hardest part of life, is losing those family members that we love.”

For a 7 year old, my youngest is an old soul. He is thoughtful and very much a deep thinker. He analyzes and worries about things, that I wished that he wouldn’t have gotten from me, but did. I don’t know that when I was his age, that I was thinking about the life and death spectrum?

As he drifted off to sleep, I thought about my answers. I had hoped and prayed that I could bring him comfort. I had hoped that I could take his worry and turn it into hope. But at the end of the day, he is right. One of the hardest part of life is losing those family members that we love. But I truly believe that if we focus on the time we have with them, that even though the pain will be there when they are no longer, we will have memories to hold on to.

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Memories come and go, it is just a part of life. We forget things today and yet we might remember things that we did years ago. It is funny how the human mind works.

Last night while rocking the boys, they asked if I liked ice cream and I laughed, because who doesn’t like ice cream? But I remembered something, a memory that I had from a long time ago, when I was their age. Every Thursday night for several years, my grandfather drove 45 minutes to take me get ice cream. This was a time before cell phones, but I would stand at the window waiting and when I would see him pull up in the white VW Bug, I would run outside and off we would go.

The funny thing is that I have not thought about this grandfather taking me for ice cream for years. I remember the ice cream shop, the checkered floor, the way that they had all the ice cream in a paper container inside of a glass case. I remember the way that my grandfather would lift me on his shoulder so that I could not only make my selection, but also so that I could tell the person waiting on us my order. And every time, every time, I would get Strawberry ice cream.  I don’t know why these memories came into my head at that very moment, but I’m glad that they did.

This particular grandfather, my mom’s mom, died when I was in 1st grade and I don’t have a lot of memories of him. I remember the ice cream, I remember his barbershop and I remember the train set that he bought for  me and that we played with when I was my son’s age. I was and would still be, my grandfather’s only grandson. There are multiple great grandsons, but I would have been the only grandson among 3 granddaughters.  I could do no wrong in my grandfather’s eyes, I just wish that he would have lived longer, long enough to see my sons.

I’ll never forget where I was when I was told about my grandfather’s death, standing in the hallway outside of my class, talking with the principal of the school. But years later, while I was at work, I was talking to a gentleman by the name of Dave and while talking I said something and he froze. He literally stopped in his tracks, turned around and sat down in a chair.  Dave asked if Clifton was my grandfather and if Chris was my mom. And when I said yes, he broken into tears. He started sharing memories of them both and stories that I had never heard before. I felt better about my grandfather that day and felt a peace with his death, since he never told me goodbye, before he took his own life.

I am fortunate though, I do have one grandfather left, my dad’s father and he and I are really close. We usually talk once or twice every other week. We talk about any and everything under the sun. Work, his dad, my dad as a kid, my sons, politics, and the list goes on. My grandfather grew up during the great depression and served in WWII, though it has take years of my asking some basic questions about those two events for him to open up. My grandfather is a very proud man and will never talk bad about anyone, even those that do him wrong. I have learned so much about him and from him in the last several years, that these are things that I’ll treasure.

But this past week on our weekly call, I realized that the memories are starting to fade for him.  He was getting dates confused, people confused and was getting really tired, but at 90 years old, what do you expect.  But it is also sad too, because there is more that I want to know about him, his past, his life as a farmer, his 60 year marriage to my grandmother, but all of the memories are starting to fade. But I love when my grandfather shares stories with me, that my dad has never heard, like when he and my grandmother were married by the Justice of the Peace for $3.00, because that was all that he had ,but in hindsight, he should have given him $2.00 because he needed gas money later week.As I get older and I talk with my parents and more importantly my grandparents, I am reminded about memories, because memories can be both good and bad. They can provide both a sense of comfort and security as well as hopelessness. My hope is that as my boys grow up and if they too should be become fathers, that they share their memories of my time with them. The sacrifices that my wife and I made, so that they could have a better life. But I hope that they share the good memories, the trips together, the playing, the laughing and more importantly, how much we love them.

 

 

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My grandfather, the boys Great Grand Father and I were talking about how when he and my grandmother were married, it cost him $3.00. And then he was telling me stories about his time in WWII and coming back to North Carolina and buying a farm. And then a year later, my father was born.

These are stories that I will treasure forever and I only hope that my boys are old enough to really get to know my grand father. You see, he and I talk almost every Saturday, no matter what. We talk about his father, my great great grand father and what he was like. My grand father also talks about his mom, my great great grand mother, who I only vaguely remember, as she died when I was 5 and the pranks that he would pull on her. And then my grand father always likes to do two things on each call, 1) tell me stories about my father when he was a child and 2) give me some words of wisdom about raising my sons. Today, he shared with me that he had prayed that I have a son, but that he guessed that he over prayed since we had twins.

Every time you put those boys in my grand father’s arms, he lights up.  And even though he only sees them once every few months, he makes the most of his time with them. He talks to them as though they are my age. He tells them stories about what I was like as a child. He tells them about his wife who passed away several years ago, as he wants to make sure that they know who she was. He walks them around the house and shows them pictures, tells them stories and loves watching them smile.

I know that I have only a few years left of these Saturday calls, so I hope to get as much information from my grand father, because this is my heritage and my son’s heritage. The story about being married for $3.00 to my grand mother, I was the only one that he ever told that story to. These are the stories that I can’t wait to tell my sons when they get older.

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