Column: Happy Grandparents’ Day

As a young child, spending weekends with my grandparents felt like heaven. They lived in a small brick house in northern Georgia. Towering pine trees, planted by my grandpa years before, lined the dirt driveway leading to the building I called my second home.

A large number of black cats lived in the backyard, protecting the home from mice that frequently invaded. On multiple occasions, I begged to bring a cat home, but my parents never let me.

A tall, thick tree shaded the backyard. I cannot remember the type of tree, but tennis ball-sized plants grew from its limbs. More than once, I pretended they were apples, but I never ate one. Further back, an ugly, white toolshed stood adjacent to one of my grandpa’s many gardens.

Even further back, behind at least an acre of woods, was a long corn field. Blueberry bushes dotted another part of the landscape, followed by acres of lush, green fields (save for the occasional cow patty). Finally, a creek lined the outer rim of the fields, its base packed with grey, slimy clay.

Only one thing was greater than roaming the land, and that was the beautiful people living in that little brick house.

My grandparents never saw much money. They never ate at restaurants, and large portions of their food came from their garden or animals. Even my dad’s pet, a steer, was raised for slaughter.

My grandpa was a high school science teacher, and he lived frugally. However, when I was an infant, my grandpa frequently gave my parents diaper money — a much needed commodity for my parents.

Along with my adventures outside, I also enjoyed spending one-on-one time with my grandparents. During the evenings, tic-tac-toe became a prominent pastime. I would excitedly hop back and forth, taking turns playing against my grandpa and then grandma.

They both sat on soft rocking chairs in their small living room. My grandpa always wore plaid shirts, and my grandmother usually wore a hairnet hugging her brown curls. My dad sometimes asks me if I remember them. Memories are vague, but I was old enough to experience the joy of their presence and the sound of their voices.

Yes, Dad, I remember them.

Death is a confusing topic for a 9-year-old. It was early in the morning, maybe 5 or 6 a.m. My dad gently tapped my shoulder.

“Logan, Grandpa’s with Jesus.”

I received a similar announcement the week before, when my grandma passed away. They both suffered cancer and died exactly a week apart. Neither knew of the other’s death.

Never underestimate the knowledge of a parent or grandparent. My grandparents played an important role in my upbringing, both direct and indirect, yet I was too young to fully comprehend their role, or thank them for their dedication.

I think we can all learn valuable lessons from the elderly, especially those related to us. You only have four biological grandparents, and they will not be around forever. Take time to shoot them a phone call this Gradparents’ Day, Sunday, Sept. 9. Better yet, spend your day cutting their grass. I promise they will be grateful for that.

Life is supposed to be fun. Run around, play in the creek and dash through the fields, as I did. But never forget the beautiful people who gave you that opportunity. Even though playtime brought the most immediate gratification when I visited my grandparents’ house, nothing was more important than being with the two people who lived within its walls.

Happy Grandparents’ Day. Make it count.

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