Sierra Drive

A few weeks ago my maternal grandfather passed away and it became official: my grandparents are all gone. He was my last living grandparent and now that he is gone that chapter in my life is closed. I look back and realize I was fortunate to know all of my grandparents so well and to have had them in my life for so long. They were all sweet, beautiful, kind people and like Tom Brokaw has said, truly the “greatest generation”.

After my grandfather's passing, one of my aunts found in his Bible an article I had written and given to him back in June of 1998. I didn't realize he had kept it all these years (and in his Bible, no less). My aunt gave it back to me and I read it now smiling at my young writer-self from twenty years ago. I was trying to be flowery with words, I presume. Nevertheless, my grandfather apparently loved it. I do remember him saying that I should keep writing and that he hoped I would one day become a published writer. Well, I’m not a writer, but I do have this here blog. And because he loved it and I love him, here it is (sort of) published. 

This road I travel down is so familiar. Countless times I have made the drive. However, my seat has changed along the way. Once, my only view was of dashboards and treetops. And then it changed as I learned how to drive down this road. Through many years this road and the houses on it have remained relatively unchanged. Each house has had a story and I have heard many of them. I have learned many lessons along this road. And now I reach the end of it. The end of the road. A circular dead end. A cul-de-sac and a house on the left. No, no house here. A home. As my car grows closer I realize I am not traveling lightly. I carry more memories than one heart can bear. Oh, how I love this place.

I pull down the driveway and an all too familiar question looms over me. It doesn't loom, it screams. It is not framed in a nice little comic strip bubble. No simple little thought here. This question of my mind is always there demanding an answer from me. It pounds on my head, it beats on my emotions, and it thrashes at my heart. This question requires my psyche to pull from all time and space for an answer. The question is always there.How many more times do I get to travel down this road? Sometimes I wonder if I am the only one who hears it. After all, it was a quiet question at first. It started as a whisper. It began as a faint calling from somewhere I could actually ignore for a time. But, now I have no option and no choice but to acknowledge it. Does anyone else hear it? I wonder if it calls to the others who come here. I wish it would scream at those who visit a little less often. Maybe it screams to all of us but the pain of its answer is to hard to bear. With the acknowledgement of its presence, I can push it aside. I am here now. I'm going to make the most of it. 

The embrace of the two people who lie within this home is simply angelic. It's like a warm blanket, a steady rain, an answered prayer. They are angels. To view them as mere humans is basically impossible for me. They are my grandparents. My good and perfect gift from a loving heavenly Father.Somewhere in the back of my mind I know they are normal people. I imagine that they are capable of undesirable behaviors. I'm sure they have bad moods. Flaws? If they exist, I haven't seen them. In my life I have never heard anyone give a criticism or slight to either of them. Everyone they meet falls instantly in love with them. I feel unworthy to be called flesh and blood.

My grandfather to me is wisdom. He is peace and serenity. He is strength and nobility. He is a handyman! There's just something special about a man who can fix things. He is a hard worker, a provider, an athlete, a comedian, and a sleepyhead. I love it when he slowly nods off while reading the newspaper. Amazingly enough, the paper never seems to fall from being held right in front of his face as he slowly falls asleep. He's got talent.

My grandmother to me is Mommia. What's in that name? Love. My grandmother to me is love. Today I held her hand on her 70th birthday. As my sister and I stood there next to her I saw time. I saw life as viewed in the context of time. Life in the sense of a circle. A chain. A never-ending process of generations. For a minute there I got wind of something almost Native American. The spirit that was passed from her grandmother through four generations down to my sister and me. A spirit and a legacy. We've all taken different physical forms but the spirit within goes unchanged. 

How did I get here? Why me? Why am I so blessed to call these two people grandparents? 

As I say goodbye and back out of the driveway, the question comes at me again. How many more times? With reluctant resolve I give the question an answer: I have no idea. I have no idea how much longer I have with them. I don't know how many more times I'll get to travel this old road and walk the cherished steps to their door. My answer to the question is I don’t know. Forget realism. I don't care about the inevitable. I care about my time. I care about making the most of it. I care about treasuring every detail that is them and making it a part of me that is unforgettable. 

Every story; how they met, how they fell in love, and how she used to paint my nails. I want to hear it all just one more time. I refuse to remind them that they've told me this one or that one before. I want a vivid picture that lasts forever. I want to tell my grandchildren the same stories. After all, they are remarkable stories from remarkable people.