"Grandchildren are the dots that connect the lines from generation to generation."
~Lois Wyse
April 2006
(another of my earlier stories)
I am 40 years old, and I love being an uncle. I have two nieces, Ashley is nine and Hannah is six. They are my sister Margie’s daughters. One of the pleasures of being an uncle is that I get to watch my parents being grandparents. Recently, Margie suggested that we start a tradition of having a family dinner on Sundays - nothing formal, just a way for us to get together more often. It has been great. Seeing my nieces on a regular basis is a treat, and they give me an excuse to act like a kid.
Usually, during these Sunday get-togethers, the rest of us are acting crazy while my dad is doing all the cooking and prep work. It can be challenging for him to get things ready and not be too distracted by all the revelry. So mostly I get to see my mom interacting with Ashley and Hannah, but seldom do I get to see my dad in that role.
Today is Wednesday, a day off for me. Earlier, I stopped by my parents’ home to pick up a video tape. Margie had emailed me that Ashley and Hannah would be there when I arrived. Margie had turned her ankle, and my brother-in-law was taking her to the hospital to have it x-rayed. I took this to mean that my folks would be babysitting when I stopped by.
When I entered the house, it was quiet, which is unheard of when my nieces are over. Then I heard some hushed voices coming from the kitchen, I figured they were hiding in ambush, waiting to spring a trap for me. That wasn’t it at all.
Upon entering the kitchen I witnessed a most poignant scene. Around the table sat my dad and my nieces. The girls, under my dad’s tutelage, were making things out of rocks and sea shells by gluing them together. One of my father’s hobbies is polishing stones and making jewelry out of them. My dad was the teacher and the girls were the willing students. Maybe this happens more often than I am aware, but I hadn’t witnessed it before. My mom had a doctors appointment of her own, and dad was flying solo.
I felt somewhat like an intruder. I knew that my being there could potentially be a distraction, but everyone appeared to be unfazed by my arrival, which was good. They were immersed in their activity; if I sensed that my presence was diverting the girl’s attention, I was prepared to make an excuse to leave. I didn’t want to upset the dynamic. I didn’t want to leave either, so I went into the adjoining room to work on a jigsaw puzzle that my mom had begun. However, my thoughts were with what was going on in the kitchen.
The girls were well-behaved. They asked questions and addressed my dad as "Papa" like they always did. It just sounded different spoken softly. My dad answered with tenderness and patience. The girls seemed to understand what was required of them to help keep order.
My dad is hard of hearing, and on Sundays when things get loud and boisterous, it can be difficult for him to keep track of all that is being said. His handicap was not a factor here, though. When the crowd is kept small, and the decibel level is low, the likelihood of distraction is minimal.
Every so often, one of the girls would call to my attention what they had created. Satisfied with my quick and economical reaction, they would return to what they were doing. I too, knew what was required to keep order. I would do whatever was necessary not to disturb this delicate scene. It was like I was watching a rare bird through a window; I could do many things to make the bird fly away for good, or I could choose to stay quiet and out of sight, so I could go on observing as long as the bird wanted to stay.
I was trying to contribute by not contributing. I said very little and stayed out of the way. The scene was all about circumstances and opportunity.
The circumstances were that both my mother and my sister had medical needs to attend to at the same time. The opportunity was twofold: for my dad to be in charge of the girls and for me to be there to witness it. If either my mother or sister had been there, the setting would have been completely different. I’m thankful that it wasn’t different as a result of my being there.
Eventually, things broke up in the kitchen. The girls can only conserve their energy for so long before having to burn some of it off. I got what I needed, though: a small bit of grace in what started out as a routine visit.
Driving home, I was thinking about what I had just witnessed; my dad was doing just fine as a grandfather. I was also thinking that, when I was young, he did just fine as a father, too.
Today, through my nieces, I was reintroduced to the man who taught me how to fish and water-ski. The man who took me to Boston Garden to see the Bruins when Bobby Orr was king and they were the toughest ticket in town. The man who taught me that honesty and trust are the greatest virtues. The man who taught me that, even though someone may have a handicap, they can still contribute and live a full, meaningful life.
It has been said that parents get a second chance with their grandchildren. Maybe, through grandchildren, we all get a second chance. A second chance to recapture faded memories too precious to forget. And a second chance to relive what was so important the first time around.
