The Joy of Nearby Grandparents

Yesterday was National Grandparents' Day, and I paused to think how different my experience as a grandmother is from my youth. My young my life was full of interactions with my grandparents (and even great-grandparents), most of whom lived very close to me. Now two of my grandchildren are halfway across the United States from me, and the youngest is with her mother who is stationed at a U.S. Army base in Germany. I have only seen the three of them once. Thankfully there are video chats and phone calls and lots and lots of photos. I never thought I'd say it, but these are the times I'm thankful for Facebook and Instagram.

Except for Grandpa and Grandma Whannel (my father's maternal grandparents), who had a small farm in Kimball, the rest of my 'grand' relations were long-time East Siders. And eventually even Grandpa Tommy moved to St. Paul to life with my dad's parents after his wife died. I don't recall exactly when that was, but I have a very vivid memory of climbing through the open living room window from the porch swing and sliding down the couch as I chased after my youngest uncle, who was only a few years older than me. The couch was upholstered in horse hair, and I think the sting of that on my bare legs (girls only wore dresses in those days) imprinted it on my memory. I don't recall much of Grandma Whannel, only that she was a tiny woman with a kind smile.

Grandpa Tommy is fixed in my mind as the one responsible for my love of poetry. I don't know if it was before he moved or afterward that he lost his sight, but he was blind as far back as I can recall. But I'm getting ahead of myself, because it took me a few years to figure that out. I remember sitting in his lap as a small child while he read to me from one of his favorite poetry books - Robert Burns or Whittier most likely, but I know there were others. By the time I got to memorizing poems in grade school, "The Song of Hiawatha" and "The Wreck of the Hesperus" were old familiar friends.

But what I didn't realize when I was much younger was that Grandpa Tommy was relying on his memory, not his eyes. I figured that out at one point when I had learned to read myself and realized he was holding the book upside down and he was 'reading' from some random page, definitely not the poem he was reciting. But if you had told me as a four-year-old that he was blind, I would not have believed you. Perhaps it was his other senses compensating, for whenever my hand would reach for the Kraft caramels he kept in a dish on the end table next to his favorite chair, he would say sharply, "Catherine Anne! Get your hand out of my candy dish!" But then of course he would unwrap one and hand it to me.

And then there was the fact that he took almost daily walks around the block, accompanied by my grandparents' very large, very old, and very fat dachshund, Tally. I suppose I attributed his cane to his being elderly and needing something to steady himself. Somehow he managed to make it out the front door, down the stone steps, around the block, and back into the house. It still astounds me, though I suspect he had made that walk many times before his sight failed, and like the poems, he knew the route by heart. A few times I walked with him, and I am fairly certain his steps were steadier than mine. It was always the same - out the front door and turn left at the sidewalk, west on Wheelock half a block to Walsh. He turned left at Walsh and walked at the edge of the street for a block because there was no public sidewalk on that stretch. Then it was left onto the sidewalk on Sherwood, but we then turned into the alley just short of Arcade. It was a busy spot and it was preferable to walk through the seldom-driven alley that cut between Sherwood and Wheelock. (There's an Asian restaurant there now, but back in those days it was a drive-in whose name I can't recall. Eventually it became Romolo's, home of some of the best pizza and Italian comfort food in that part of town.) Another left turn and a half a block more and we were back.

When I was about 10 years old, he fell and broke his hip, and at that point he was in his 90s, so moving him to a nursing home to be cared for was really the only option. My parents took me and my siblings to visit him periodically, especially on holidays. He loved singing, so we four kids would have a few songs for him. I have a distinct memory of an old man in a wheelchair parked by the door, and on more than one occasion someone would call from across the hall for us to come sing to them. He lasted a couple of years after his fall, but eventually his old body finally gave out. I think that was the year I was 12.

As a small child, I had one more living great-grandparent, my mother's mother's mother. She lived in Sweden so I never got to meet her, and I don't think my mother did, either. Her mother had come to the U.S. in her teens. She never went back, so except for one visit from a few of her siblings one year to celebrate her birthday, we didn't really know Grandma Dewall's family, other than her two uncles that were living in Minnesota before she emigrated.

Grandpa Dewall died the year I was born, so the only memories I have of him are pictures. My mother was the youngest of their six children, and most of his other grandchildren at that point were quite a bit older than I was. I do know he was a cabinet maker and a carpenter and that he once turned down an opportunity to work for an Iron Range company that had recently opened up offices in St. Paul. Later to be called 3M, Minnesota Mining & Manufacturing was what it was known as then, and being short on funds for payroll, they were offering new employees partial payment in stock. Grandpa Dewall couldn't afford that. I did learn to write my name at his desk, so in a way I feel like he was a part of my childhood, too.

From the time I was in second grade, both grandmothers lived within walking distance. In fact, when I went to Farnsworth, their homes were only a couple of blocks from each other. Grandpa and Grandma Ray lived on Wheelock Parkway near Arcade, and Grandma Dewall's house was on Sherwood on the other side of Arcade. I can remember riding my bike to both of their houses, as well as going there after school. My dad would then pick me up on his way home. He worked at the 3M offices down on Arcade (they were paying better than in the days my Grandpa Dewall had a chance to work for them), so it was very convenient.

When I was about 10 Grandma Dewall sold the house on Sherwood and moved with my mom's oldest sister (unmarried) into an upstairs apartment of a house at the end of Lane Place off Maryland. Shortly after that, my parents bought a house on the same street, so visits to Grandma Dewall's house were frequent. I went with my mom to help her clean about once a week, and occasional after school card games were not uncommon. She loved Rook and Hearts and rummy, and it was from her I developed a love for baseball and coffee. (You can read more about her in this post.) She died when I was in college, but not before passing on to me her best dishes, in hopes that having them might make me a more attractive marriage candidate. She was terribly concerned I was going to be an old maid, since I was approaching 20 and not yet married. But she left me with memories and life lessons far more valuable than china. And her recipe for Swedish pepparkakor (spice cookies) is tucked into one of my cookbooks.

A teenage indiscretion meant I was expelled from my home but fortunately my Grandpa and Grandma Ray took me in, and I lived with them all through college. Grandpa Harvard was newly retired from the First National Bank, and I think my grandma appreciated him having someone else to concentrate his efforts on rather than her. He needed things to occupy his time, and I think his favorite was to teach me his ways to save money. Funny, my paternal grandparents were relatively comfortable financially, but Grandpa and I had excursions to put re-treads on my car when it needed new tires, and he introduced me to various places along University Avenue like the Ax Man Surplus. He knew it was cheaper to buy motor oil by the case than the individual can. And if you were really careful when you walked, you didn't need to turn on the yard light after dark.

Unlabeled, dented canned goods at $5 a case were quickly snagged up whenever they appeared on pallets at Country Club on Arcade. Of course, that always made for an interesting dinner. Cans were closely examined to see what labeled ones they might resemble, and sometimes shaking them provided clues. But the rule was we ate whatever was opened. So you never knew if the side dish with pot roast was mixed vegetables or canned peaches. A bargain was something to be pursued, even if you had to drive all over town to save a dollar.

I still have a hard time paying full price for anything, and clearance signs are like the ringing of the bell for Pavlov's dogs. Grandpa Harvard taught me to spot deals others might miss. And oddly enough, I've spent a good portion of my adult working life as a bookkeeper/financial manager. I can balance a bank account to the penny. Thanks to my grandmothers, I love major league baseball and coffee and poetry and planting flowers. I knit and sew and can and cook from scratch. Like my Grandma Kate and Grandpa Tommy Whannel, I am a voracious reader. I turn to the Psalms for comfort in hard times, and I have a breakfast tray to keep the crumbs out of the bed. I can't resist photographing wildflowers I come across. Grandma Dewall would be relieved to know I finally got married, but her china made its way to an estate dealer due to some unexpected expenses. But that's fine, John didn't marry me for my dishes. I may not have those floral plates anymore, but I sure have memories of some of the wonderful food she served on them.

I like to think that somewhere in heaven my grandparents are smiling, even if I can't recall for the life of me the rules for Rook and most of my dinners are served on paper plates.