My Grandparents: My Rock, My Faith by Shannon Harris

Whether I like it or not I am the matriarch of the next generation of my family. I am the oldest female grandchild, the actual oldest among the “real” kids. I am the first-born. I was without a doubt, the favorite. My grandparents never told me so, but it was just an understood, among all nine of us. I was the one who was always there, always called, even before I could do anything else.

There were some days when I would scurry down the stairs of my parents home, crawled up the old chocolate and caramel plaid rocker and stand on the waxy, wooden arm of the chair dialing the number that would be permanently etched into my mind, 233-2267. My grandfather always said he was unsure what to talk to me about and he would then give my Grammy the phone. I could talk to them for hours, it never mattered what about just that I could hear their voices, tell them anything. Chatting with both my grandparents with enthusiasm, high regard, and reverence. They were then, still are now perfect in all aspects. The actual Grande dame and grandsire, my grandparents were amazing simple people. They appreciated me with hearts full of joy, pride, and excitement because I was the first born of their first-born. I was consistently a fixture in their home. Memories flash and flood through my mind and tears fill my eyes as I think of them and how they treasured me. The tale my dad tells of the day I was born and how my grandfather was getting in to see me no matter what, the popcorn and Pepsi often consumed at their home, butter and crackers, many holidays spent at their home. Nine grandkids, three sons, three daughter – in – laws, two grandparents, one dog and most importantly one bathroom. The tree planted out back by my grandfather, my cousin and me, the many tomatoes grown in their small and steady garden. The cedar chest, I often laid or sat on in order to talk to my grandmother, the small plastic veggie bags filled with newspaper clippings, napkins and keepsakes from all of our family adventures. Each child, young or old, grand or her own, had their own bag that she kept anything and everything that reminded her of us. The immense and ugly chair you would always find my grandfather in and the spongy twill rocker by which my grandmother sat quietly by his side even after he left her. The most wonderful memory of her sitting on the edge of my hospital bed as she held my newborn son for the very first time. Nick would be the only one of my children she would ever see. My grandfather never got the opportunity to see my children, not in this world anyway. With each of them I have special memories that will last a lifetime, stories of their past as well as mine. All of these things come together in a seamless patchwork quilt of wisdom.

As July 29 approaches they would have been married sixty-six years on that day. It seems difficult to fathom the whole concept of a true passionate love lasting that long, but it happens. They were not perfect; I know that, however there was no one who ever cared for me more.I recognize that there is nothing I could ever do to make them love me less. I was important.

There are so many stories and memories that I cherish and respect about my grandparents. My grandfather: HANDSOME, a giant, burly man, reddish rugged complexion, deep dark coffee brown eyes, debonair, the largest loving hands a child had ever seen. As he got older, tan leather slippers that swished on the floor as he walked through the house. Overalls were always a sure bet no matter the season, he was a member of the old school of thought. A temperate chiseled face, a soft smirk of a smile. Hat, uniform, and shirt pressed to perfection setting flawlessly upon his body. He was a tank commander in the army during the World War II. He was originally from Bethany, Missouri, and received only an eighth grade education. He was in my eyes the ideal man. He emulated respect and attention when he walked in a room or if he just spoke few words.

My grandmother was a tiny, petite, mouse of a woman, also from the old school of thought. She believed women belonged at home with children in toe.She was the youngest of five in her family, the only female, with four strong large brothers. She was the first female to get to go to high school in my family. She was extremely smart, creative, and often too honest for her own good. My grandmother, Edna Faye, strong whether she knew it or not, determined, loving. She was barely one hundred pounds sopping soak and wet, if she were lucky all of five foot tall. Her eyes were soft sapphires of compassion. Her supple and small, hands manicured to perfection always caressing my face in true adoration for me. Her hugs were always a true comfort, and as I got older she seemed so small in my arms and yet, I knew still infinite in her wisdom. My grandmother has always been a sense of inspiration for me, without knowing it she gave me very distinct values and morals. She taught me to be strong and confident in myself and for what I stood for and to stand up for myself, go the extra mile, and I should be someone people would remember. She had always wanted to be a teacher and maybe that is where my true desire for my profession was inherited.

Some days I am in agonizing pain over the thought of many days I will spend without my grandparents. They are such a part of me, with great inspiration and motivation to be the person, mother, and teacher that I am today. I often pause for quiet stolen moment to just reflect on my relationship and life with and without my grandparents.