Being Involved

I have fond memories of my grandparents. Grandpa Dave died long before I was born, but Grandma Eva was very much a part of my life. It was she who taught me to do needlepoint, and I can still close my eyes and see her sitting on the foot of my bed, silhouetted by the light shining into the darkened room from the hallway through the half opened door, as she recited "The Wee, Wee Woman", "The Naughty Little Boy Who Wouldn't Go to Bed", " or "Little Bucetino". And I can remember playing checkers with Grandpa Evans on the wide railing of their big front porch, wheedling lemon drops from the store he carried in his pocket, carefully sewing together scraps of blue and rose satin on Grandma Evans's old treadle machine, and eating a dish of home-canned peaches and a slice of bread in her old-fashioned kitchen. My sister Dolly and I would dance around their living room to the music from the Lawrence Welk Show while they smiled and applauded. I can remember how proudly I would tell the Operator to connect me to 1177M so that I could talk with Grandma Evans on the telephone.

My own children were not so fortunate to have such close connections to their grandparents. Frank's naval career kept our family thousands of miles away from both sets of grandparents, and visits were few and far between, with the exception of the year when the Navy sent him back to USU to finish his PhD and the one following, when he was stationed everywhere from Bremerton WA to Holy Loch, Scotland, and the three older children and I remained behind in Logan, seven miles from my parents' home. Frank's parents were either in Colorado or Arizona, and we saw even less of them.

I know that my parents loved my children and very much enjoyed their company the few times we were able to be with them. But circumstances were such that we could not often visit them, and they either could not or would not --perhaps a great deal of both-- visit us. My brother's children and my sister's sons fared a little better than mine, but both of their families were able to visit Utah far more regularly than our finances and Frank's Navy obligations allowed us.

I was always frustrated by my parents' seemingly hands-off approach to grandparenting. They almost never initiated contact with us when we were stationed elsewhere. Mother was faithful about sending birthday cards briefly signed "Love, Grandma and Grandpa" with a few dollars tucked inside, but though I wrote letters filled with "cute kids stories" and snapshots, she seldom responded in kind, and never addressed her remarks or her notes to the children. At Christmastime, she did not feel she knew the kids well enough to pick out appropriate gifts for them, so she would send me a check with instructions to buy each something he or she would enjoy. I tried to call long distance at least once a month. When I did, Mother did most of the talking with Dad listening in, and the conversation would be pleasant enough. But they never called us unless there was some sort of emergency to report. When Older Daughter was born, Mother flew to Florida to help us and stayed for a week or so. She came again when Younger Son was born. Once, both she and Dad came to visit us in Florida. I have a wonderful snapshot of my father holding Older Son up to touch the windchime that hung in the screened porch of our house there. We were able to entice them into coming to Hawaii after Younger Daughter was born by asking Dad to give her a name and a blessing, the only one of his grandchildren for whom he acted as Voice in the blessing. One of Older Daughter's prized possessions is a little heart-shaped locket of pure gold that Dad cast for her in his dental lab. They visited us a couple of times in Virginia, where not only our family, but my brother's six children were a definite attraction. During one of their visits, Older and Younger Son had not come straight home after school as they should have and, in consequence, were sent to bed before supper. (In the spirit of fitting the punishment to the crime, I told them that it was important that I knew where they were and that they were safe, and since they had not let me know where they were, I was sending them to a place where I knew where they were and that they were safe.) Dad was appalled at the severity of the penalty and asked if he could go up to their room and spend time with them. He taught them to play poker that night. And when Older Daughter went to BYU, she often spent weekends with Dad and got to know him a little better, but for the most part, none of my children knew their grandparents at all.

So, when I became a grandmother almost five years ago, I determined that I would try to be the kind of grandmother I wished my children had had. For three years, while we lived in Virginia and The Grandson lived in Washington state, I scheduled quarterly visits, sometimes by myself, sometimes with Frank. As The Grandson got older, I tried to send a little note or postcard to him at least once a month. And, ultimately, the major gravitational force which drew us from Virginia to Spokane emanated from The Grandson and his Younger Brother.

I thought about all this today when I walked into Older Daughter's kitchen and saw the orange construction paper pinwheel The Grandson and I made a few weeks ago still prominently displayed in a cup on the kitchen counter. My grandsons know who I am. They know I love them. Their faces light up when they see me. We are connected, tied together by strong personal bonds of love forged in frequent interaction. And it is good. My association with them is one of the greatest joys of my life. And, in the process, I seem to be a force for good in their lives -- and their parents' lives, too.

The day will come --soon-- when I will have Other Grandchildren, some of them not within "easy spoiling distance". The question that buzzes around in my head today is how to connect with the distant ones. How will they know that I love them, too, and not just the grandchildren who live fifteen minutes away? The last year has taught me that week-long quarterly visits, monthly notes, and weekly phone calls are not a substitute for personal one-on-one interaction.