How I remember them:
My grandfather, the farmer with a thousand stories and a love of open fields, had a pear tree in his garden with the tiniest and sweetest of pears. He once opened the door on his birthday to find that a capercaillie had wandered up on the porch and pecked on the door. He also taught me to play with matches.
My other grandfather, the farmer who had grown up poor, married above his station, fought in the war and knew how to make shoes, dressed in brown trousers with suspenders and sat in a rocking chair.
My grandmother, who had said goodbye to many emigrant brothers, studied English, knitted and went on guided trips. She always packed a sandwich lunch for me when I was going away.
My other grandmother, who during the war had run a farm (despite allergies) and raised children on her own, crocheted the most intricate blankets and doilies until rheumatism stopped her. She sat on her bed all day long, gave me sweets and listened when I played on her old pump organ.
What they all had in common: Love and a generous spirit. They are all gone, and I miss them all.
No comments:
Post a Comment