Yesterday, I was going through one of my old blog books from 2018. It was the year I posted something every day, and it offers a snapshot of daily life. That summer, as usual, our granddaughter, who was nine-years-old at the time, spent a few weeks with us for “Camp G & G.” Also, as usual, we had a blast together.
One day in mid-July, I wrote about my hope that she would remember the precious time we shared. In part, the post said:
I hope she remembers tiptoeing into our bedroom in the morning—Grandpa opening his arms to welcome her and passing her a pillow, Grandma asking how she slept while she climbs in and settles between us in our king-sized bed.
I hope she remembers spending cool mornings in the garden, helping and contributing to the effort, and enjoying the freshly picked rewards.
I hope she remembers a grandfather who is always up for some fun and a grandmother who, with amusement, sometimes reigns these crazy two in.
I hope she remembers endless games of charades, hide and seek, Qwirkle, and KGT (Kamloops’s Got Talent); and simple things like skipping ropes and sidewalk chalk and fairy gardens.
I hope she remembers the plays she writes, the performances we put on, and the video recordings she makes of them.
I hope she remembers the nights we cuddle on the sofa watching a movie before curling up together in bed to read a chapter or two from her book.
I hope she remembers, and that it becomes implanted deep within her, that her grandparents love her very much and are always in her corner cheering her on.
I hope the life lessons we talk about as we go about our day take hold and gift her with wisdom in the future.
I hope that knowing she is treasured and loved gives her confidence to walk strongly along her chosen path as she grows.
I sent the post to my now 16-year-old granddaughter with a question. Do you remember? She told me it brought her to tears, and that she misses us.
“Of course I remember. I always will,” she said.
From the first moment I held her on the day she was born, looked into her eyes and fell in love, my intention has always been to pour into her and contribute something of value to her life.
Gerry and I lived in Washington State when she was born on a frigid January morning in Calgary, Alberta. I worried, that with us living so far away, she wouldn’t get to know us and that our grandparenting opportunities would be limited, but with intention (and a lot of travel and Skype calls) we became, and have remained, an important influence in her life.
Circumstances were such that, after retirement, we lived closer to one another—for a time, she even lived with us—and our relationship has grown even stronger over the years. Sadly for both of us, now we live farther apart than ever, but we find creative ways to stay connected.
Anyway, back to her response to my asking if she remembers the good times at Camp G & G. My thought, after I wiped away a tear, was that with her remembering and treasuring those times, having implanted grandparent’s love and a measure of wisdom into her early life, the most important work of my life was done.
I’m in the fourth and final quarter of my life. I’ve been thinking about that lately, not in a fatalistic or surrendering-to-the-inevitable sense, but in terms of how I want to continue to grow and contribute in these latter years.
Elderhood does not have to mean sitting on the sidelines. Nor, should it entail desperately trying to hold on to a fleeting youth. The kind of senior living I choose involves continual learning, remaining open to different ways of thinking, connection, contribution and, yes, a different pace.
During the busy years, we (I) longed for the opportunity to catch our breath and do absolutely nothing when we felt like it—now’s our (my) chance. That said, I don’t want “doing nothing” to be my overarching mindset in this last quarter; I’ve seen how that can play out. There’s still so many things to do and learn and think about and we, as elders, still have much to offer.
Gerry and I may not be activity coordinators at Camp G & G any longer—that work is done—but we still have important roles to play. The landscape looks different, but it is no less fertile, on this side of youth. I think it’s even richer, and plan to keep augmenting aging forest lands so they remain fruitful, for as long as I can.