Sister Mozelle (Left) and Brother John (Right), working on some shenanigans. (Photo by Jon W. Sparks)
At age nine, I knew my paternal grandparents from the occasional vacations we’d take to visit them. They were unimaginably ancient.
Grandpa Tom was quiet, gentle, and possessed of a warm smile, tended four rows of corn in the backyard, and had a great collection of ties. Grandma Lula was a bundle of energy, cheery, and capable of turning that backyard corn into something scrumptious.
They were the only grands that I knew. My maternal grandparents died long before I was born, so I had to rely on letters and stories from Mom’s side of the family. I did find a cache of letters that Grandma Cora had written to her sister detailing how she had been courted by Mr. Hays, who would become my Grandpa Walter. They met cute, that’s for sure.
I got to thinking about our children and how they experienced their grands. The oldest got to take guitar lessons from his mother’s father, Abuelo Moncho, a celebrated guitarist in Puerto Rico. Doña Lola was a wizard in the kitchen and loved them completely. My mother died before she saw our little ones, but my father had several years to be with them, caring and sweet and loving to listen to the kids.
Now I’m looking at it from another angle and thinking about my granddaughters. They are experiencing considerable good fortune because they’re not just my grands, but they have all four of us wise elders living and active nearby. We all get to dote on the girls and we spoil them frequently. And, unapologetically.
One thing I’ve been determined to do is to take my 9-year-old granddaughter to a birthday party, and it’s not a Chuck E. Cheese bash. It’s for my late father’s sister who is turning 100. We’re gathering at a Methodist church in Oklahoma, where Aunt Mozelle will hold court for friends and family.
In my thinking, it’s essential that our granddaughter get to visit with her great-grand aunt. They’re both whip smart and funny. Whatever the combo of heredity and environment, it’s present in both, and I’m betting they’ll get along famously.
Aunt Mo has had an interesting century. She remembers being in a movie theater on December 7, 1941, when the film suddenly stopped and the announcement was made that Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor. She recalls the tornado that ripped through her home town less than a year later, leaving 52 dead. She later got a job working for the district attorney and was there for years. The DA’s office was elected, so she cycled through several of them, but they all kept her on. She knew how things worked and where things were (not bodies, though, I’m pretty sure).
She was, and is, quick-witted and fashionable. She is kind and generous, although if you know what’s good for you, you will need permission before trying to help out in the kitchen. Aunt Mo is also incredibly silly. When she and my Dad would sit down for a conversation, she’d pour a glass of Pommac soda and he’d get a glass of buttermilk with chunks of cornbread dropped in. They’d start telling tales and their Oklahoma twangs would get deeper and their tales goofier.
They’d talk about their father, my Grandpa Tom. Through them, I discovered that he never learned to drive. Someone had decided he needed to learn, so they parked a car in a barn, and got him to agree to try to drive it. He commenced to put it in gear, hit the gas, and ran it backwards, crashing through the rear of the building. They said that he got out of the car, and without a word, dusted himself off, and walked back to the house. He never drove again.
That gives you a taste of why it’s important for the young to mix with the seniors. There are stories and observations and jokes and wisdom going both ways. My memories of my grands are precious, such as the time I got stung by a wasp and Grandma fixed the hurt and Grandpa smoked out the offending nest. I don’t remember the pain, but I do recall the love. Although I do have one regret: Failing to ask Grandpa for some of his ties.