I was lucky enough to know each of my grandparents, who all lived into their 90s with the exception of my Grandma Covey who died when she was 87. Addie, my dad's mom, had a million grandchildren, but she made an effort to reach out to us individually by sending pretty little cards with crisp dollar bills for our birthdays. Louise, my mom's mom, only had three grandchildren, which she gleefully spoiled. Meanwhile, the grandpas, Philo and Irwin (known as "Skinny" to all of his friends) smiled their approval at us.
The point is, I always felt loved by all four of them, even if Philo sometimes got mixed up and called me "Rhonda."
But here's the thing. Even though they've been gone for many years now, I feel like my grandparents are still an important presence in my life. Why? Because they faced hard things. Disappointing things. Sad things. Tragic things. And somehow they endured.
I think of them often these days as I attempt to negotiate certain challenges. I'll tell myself stuff like, "Well, if Addie could deal with (fill in the blank) or (fill in another blank) or (YUP! IT'S ANOTHER BLANK TO FILL IN), then I can, too."
I can, too.
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I feel this way about my grandparents, too. They loved us. They kept getting out of bed and doing the next thing. I miss them more than I would ever have expected, and yet whenever I think of them I have an overwhelming sense of being loved. Thanks for that reminder, Ann. I'm right in there with you. We've got this.
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