Grand Is the Word

I believe that grandparents are a gift to the children. At least, most of them are. They are like Santa and Mrs. Claus, in the flesh. (And it's probably no accident that Santa was conceived in the image of an elderly grandpa.) They are often so cherished that children will rarely pass up an opportunity to visit their grandpa and grandma. Maybe it's the lax discipline, the pampering, and the every day's my birthday atmosphere that we as children have always adored.

Of course, if one has two sets of grandparents (as most of us do), it can often be double the pleasure, resulting in a veritable treasure trove if they try to outdo each other. But, more likely, there are one grandpa and grandma that are the favorite. Whether because they are more doting, or simply freer with their money, a child is more apt to drop whatever they are doing and come running when the "favorites" come to pay a visit.

Like most, I had my favorites, too. My Grandpa and Grandma Wyatt, my father's parents, were everything that made being a child a wonderland. They were Mother Goose, the yummy house in Hansel and Gretel, the Gingerbread Man, Christmas and the Easter Bunny, and the Wizard of Oz, all rolled up into one big cinnamon roll. In essence, everything that was wonderful and good and bigger than life itself. And when it came to anything which might threaten, they were at once protectors, defenders, and salvation.

I remember when my father once used a yardstick on me that Grandpa kept in a corner in the kitchen. The next time we paid a visit, the yardstick was back in the same corner, broken in half. Nothing was ever said. But the message was clear.

I think one of the traits I always loved and admired in Grandpa and Grandma Wyatt was their temperament. A perfect example was an incident involving my brother and I that has become family folklore. It was a beautiful summer day and we were dropped off early to be with Grandpa while Mom and Dad were at work. Being out of school for the summer, we often spent time with him and my grandmother. On this particular day, however, Grandma was at work and so it was just the three of us.

To make a long story shorter, it was early afternoon when my brother and I happened to be in the kitchen. My grandfather had just stepped outside to tend to something when we boys suddenly decided we were going to make a cake for Grandma. Likely this was my brother's idea. He was the brains of the outfit and usually came up with one scheme or another. After which he would either enlist my help, or send me to do the dirty work myself and take the heat. And being in the adolescent, approval seeking stage, I rarely said no.

On the surface it would appear to be a very innocent and endearing idea of the grandkids, to want to make a cake for their grandmother. But the very fact that we immediately locked my grandfather out of the house shows a sinister and premeditated forethought. Which was also likely my brother's idea.

With all supervision eliminated for the moment, we quickly set about constructing our cake. It was an easy task. After all, we'd watched Grandma many times while we were waiting to lick the bowl. First you put in the flour, although perhaps more should be in the bowl than on the floor. Then baking powder. What else? Milk! She always puts in milk. Oops. More spilled on the floor. And eggs! Gotta' have eggs. We'd forgotten you have to separate the egg from the shell, and so the whole thing went into the bowl ... as well as a couple dropped on the floor which suddenly was becoming quite slick.

Meanwhile, we could see my grandfather passing by the windows as he moved from one end of the house to the other, looking for a way in. My brother and I paid little mind, as we were focused on getting our cake mixed and into the oven for Grandma. Unfortunately, we'd forgotten what else goes into a cake. So, just to be sure, we began adding whatever we could find in the cabinets that was within our reach. As I recall, this included bird seed and who knows what else. But, as we moved about across the kitchen, we quickly became more interested in the slick quality of the floor than in our cake. And we were joyously sliding from one wall to the other when the kitchen door opened, and standing in the doorway was my grandfather.

Grandpa was not by any measurement a small man. Everyone in the family always referred to him as "Big Jim" for good reason. He could be most intimidating, though rarely was. And there stood this big man, my Grandpa, hands on his hips and surveying the wall-to-wall damage before him. It must have been a sight with the eggs and flour and milk spread across the floor, and the large mixing bowl containing a concoction never before conceived by any baker.

There was a momentary stillness in the room before my brother quickly offered, "We were making a cake!", which I reinforced with, "We were making a cake!". The perplexed look and knotted brow on my grandfather's face began to smooth and change to a smile which grew until he suddenly let out a deep, leaning back, aimed at the ceiling guffaw. And as he laughed, so did we. The mess we'd made, the sheer waste, was dwarfed by how endearing Grandpa had found it all to be.

At Grandpa's suggestion, we all pitched in and cleaned up the kitchen "for Grandma", and then cleaned ourselves. His smile never faded, breaking often into his deep, guttural chuckle. And when my grandmother returned from work, he couldn't even wait for her to get into the house. He met her halfway down the front walkway and it's an image I still hold in my memory today. Grandpa is standing and explaining something to my grandmother, who is listening intently as he speaks. Within moments I see my grandfather throwing back his head in laughter, and Grandma is doubled over with laughter, too.

It was much the same with everything else we did. They adored their grandkids, and were adored in return. And nothing could hold more value for them. Especially nothing of any material value.

Grandma, for instance, had a collection of salt shakers. She'd spent years collecting them from all over the country. It was an impressive collection that was probably very valuable. I remember when she died how her relatives laid claim and quickly carted away every last one. But next to her grandkids, the collection was worthless. She gave us complete access to the shakers and would sit with us for hours at the kitchen table, pretending to be a customer in a restaurant or any number of fantasies we came up with. It was as if there were nothing else in the whole wide world which demanded more attention.

I often wonder what changes take place when people become grandparents. As I grew older I heard stories which made me believe they were not nearly so tolerant of their children. So, what is it about grandchildren that tends to bring out the best in adults? Perhaps they've simply become older and wiser. Or maybe it's just that the race is nearly over and there's no longer any need for the hustle-and-bustle. Or is it merely the comfort of old age? A comfort of economics. Or the preciousness of time and a life nearly lived.

Whatever the reason, it doesn't necessarily affect all grandparents the same. My father's parents were clearly the exact opposites of my mother's parents. For Grandpa and Grandma Rorabaugh I held nothing in my heart but dread. He, in particular, was a mean and bitter man for as long as I knew him. And as I grew older I came to despise him, avoiding any contact whatsoever. In speaking to my Mother recently, she recalled the last time we saw him, when he was so hateful that we all got up and walked out. He died, only days later. In Grandma's defense, she became sweet as pie once he was gone. So perhaps I couldn't blame her. But my Grandpa Rorabaugh invokes not a single moment of compassion in my entire memory.

Still, for most children, grandparents seem to represent everything that is good, and tolerant, and wonderful in the world. For those of a christian faith, grandparents can seem as near to heavenly beings as we may possibly encounter. But the same would go for any religion, as they seem to embody the purest loving intents of all faiths. Of course my judgements are based on my childhood memories. But isn't that when we are most impressionable? And I can trace many of my best qualities directly to my grandparents.

My Grandma Wyatt died of a heart attack on an early morning. It was George Washington's Birthday and I answered the phone when my grandfather called. Dad was at work and Grandpa simply said, "Mikey, let me talk to your mother." I was eight years old.

Grandpa Wyatt went on to live for some years after, succumbing to a heart attack as well when I was a teenager. I miss every day they've been gone, only as much as every day they were here. And when I search my soul, which is often , for some guiding light to lead me through the difficulties of life, it is always they whom I will recall. And even though I often can't help but feel as though I've disappointed them, I recall that in life they saw only the best in me. Because they were, and still are, bigger than life itself.