Passing Along an Inheritance
Our Week With Wee Ones
We don’t have a great many possessions passed down through our families. Oh, a few items, to be sure: large, framed portraits of maternal great-great grandparents, an engraved stamp with which a great-great grandfather sealed his letters, a sturdy desk built by Paula’s grandfather in his teen years, etc.
That said, I inherited a great deal from my grandparents. Throughout childhood, my siblings and I saw all four of them often. Treasured items pale in importance to waves of warm memories. I fondly recall “helping” with tasks, tagging along on errands, and accompanying them on visits to relatives. Siblings, nearby cousins, and I were all ready recipients of unlimited grandparent care, support, and nurturing.
Our grandparenting opportunities are dramatically different. Paula and I recently drove to Chicago, home to our daughters’ families, and brought our oldest two grandchildren -- ages six and four -- back to North Iowa for a week of kid activities. We’ve anticipated this annual adventure for a year, since our initial “Gaga & Papa Camp” last summer. Of course, these dear ones, both girls, are a year older now… increasingly capable of longer, minimally supervised activities. Last year, perhaps ten minutes; this year, maybe thirty.
I was flying solo on Papa duty one morning this week when Paula had a zoom call. Having recently requested and received Grandma Meyer’s sandbakkel tins, it was time to introduce little fingers to this facet of their Norwegian heritage. (Don’t be misled by the Germanic name; Grandma Meyer was a full-blooded Norwegian.) Inherited tins included Grandma’s faded, handwritten recipe, with unrelated reminders scribbled in the margins: “Carolyn* about Xmas,” “take chix out Thursday,”** and “3309” -- a phone number?... an address?
Norwegian cookies were not envisioned as the sole or even the primary take-away here, although crumbled morsels were sampled and highly graded. I explain to eager helpers that these tins, their time-worn box, and this dog-eared recipe stretch back five generations, with me positioned in the middle of this arc. My assistants respond positively without fully grasping my point, somewhat akin to my reaction to generational possessions.
If we’re lucky, among the anticipated take-aways of camp week are stories reaching into the next century. Nothing terribly dramatic, mind you, although it’s worth noting, the week is not yet over. “We picked berries.” “We went swimming.” “We read books.” And maybe, if fate smiles on us, “Oh, I remember the day we made cookies in my great-great grandma’s sandbakkel tins that were maybe seventy years old at the time. In fact, I think those same tins are on the top shelf in the cupboard. Do you want to see them?”
We don’t have the same frequency of visits with grandkids I had with grandparents six decades ago. Nevertheless, we get an entire glorious week together, including scattered highlights plus many mundane exchanges. “Kids, wash your hands.” “Quick, hop in the car.” “Do you want ketchup on that?” It’s a rich opportunity to engage with them, converse with them, listen to them, occasionally to comply with their imaginative requests (… hey, what could it hurt?).
Acknowledging that their lives are a moving target, we get acquainted with them at a deeper level, however briefly, something accomplished easier without their parents present. They get to know us, too, although as with multigenerational artifacts, it’s likely an appreciation that increases with time.
Having set a minimum age of four, we’ll have three “campers” next year, four the year after. We’ve already strategized about overcoming kid-to-adult ratios working against us, anticipating that in two years, when our oldest granddaughter is eight, her inclination to be helpful may play to our benefit.
Meanwhile, we savor every minute with these children, knowing some rewards, like a sandbakkel treat, are immediate. And hoping others, like a week in rural Iowa with grandparents, will pay out over a lifetime.
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* -- Grandma’s Meyer’s daughter, my aunt Carolyn.
** -- Presumably, a reminder to take chicken out of the freezer.
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I’m pleased to be among the many talented writers who make up the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative.
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