An Ode to the Grandparent

It is Thanksgiving this weekend - and it will most likely be my last holiday in the house where my parents currently live. It is located in a small country town north of Calgary and near the farm where I was partly raised by my grandma. I did not grow up in this house but it has been my 'home' for eleven years now. And my last connection to the country and farm that I am proud to come from. Soon my parents will take roost in the city and besides my memories, there is nothing to show that I ever came from rural Alberta.

But I digress from the point of this entry. It is a holiday and my family is together. I mean my WHOLE family - my mum's side - which almost never happens. After several bottles of wine (I can finally drink with my uncles! - that is how long it has been!) we decide to put on an old family video marked 'Christmas 1991'. My cousin, who is now 16, was just nine months in the video. I was an awkward 12-year old. My mum had permed hair, my dad had hair period, my older cousins had mullets. Things got emotional when my dog, who died this year at 17, appears as just a fuzzy puppy. I actually can't get over how freaking adorable she was. My mum cried but I was happy to see her looking so vibrant and sweet. Then we hear a distinct Lancashire accent that hasn't been heard for five years and the camera pans to my grandpa. The grandpa I remember before he withered away with heart disease. The one with the silver hair and big brown glasses. With his hands so big and slightly awkward. Talking to me, a little girl. Even as I write this, tears are in my eyes when I realize just how much I have missed this man. My mum and my uncles were blown away by his accent. Not hearing him speak for so long, they JUST realized he had a thick accent. He said words lie 'oy' and 'ta' and 'love'. I am so fortunate to have a piece of my grandfather to watch - so that I can always hear his voice.

Then the screen scrambled and there was my grandma from my other side walking my dog. It is a short clip - just her in her toque and hundreds of layers. And I burst into tears.

These are two people who left this earth five years ago whom I love so deeply and miss nearly everyday. They were both so proud when I graduated high school (now that I know more history I understand this significance to them), and it pains me ever so slightly that they didn't see me graduate university. They will never meet my boyfriend who they would love and welcome whole-heartedly into the family. They don't know my cousins kids - who when they call me 'auntie' make my heart sing - I can only imagine what it must be like to hear 'great-grandpa/ma'.

I lost my other two grandparents at a young age: But I know they are there somewhere too. I have to believe that. I have short bursts of memories but I can just barely remember my grandfather's grunting farmer's voice, or the way my grandmother smelled of Oil of Olay and how her cheek was so smooth.

These four people are such a big part of me. Our grandparents are such a big part of us - yet only with us for such a brief part of our lives. They are the ones who raised our parents to be the people they are. They are the ones who baked apple pies and butter tarts and let you lick the spoon. They are the ones who tried to teach you to golf and fish - even if you were a girl who barely cared (I knew ice cream would come later, and having ice cream with him was the best). They were the ones who held out their arms as you raced to them. The ones who rubbed your back until you fell asleep. The ones who bought you an extra toy or book and told you not to tell your mum. They took you on tractors and taught you how to milk cows. They made dolls with you and paper masks. They threatened to throw you in the snow bank but tickled you instead. They were the ones who had something special that made you feel like the whole world.

Grandparents are the best - we love them and miss them. Think of your grandma or grandpa today - if they are alive call them and tell them you love them. And if not, believe that they can hear you whisper how much you miss them . . .