My favorite place in the world, the place that makes me believe in the gift of family, respect wisdom accrued over a lifetime lived, and truly appreciate the beauty and unstoppable power of nature, is at once the place that brings me unmatchable pleasure and indefinable pain.
Last night I spent hours at my grandparents' farm. We had the best spring day so far this year, and I took complete advantage of it; I borrowed my parents' 4-wheeler and truck and took off. Somehow, the warm sun and wind on my face rejuvenate me, and last night was no exception. The weather was irresistably pleasant, and I had the run of the hills.
It was one of those perfect days--days that can't happen in the dead of winter--that offers a marked change in temperature between the hidden shade of the timber and the sunlight of the open spaces. Every turn in the trails and rise of the hills brought the hope of new life and things to come. The valley that was the impetus for this year's family Christmas poem was as sacred and secluded as it should be, hidden from the road, from the pasture, and from the hilltops above. There were harbingers of spring, of life, of hope everywhere I rode.
When I saw my grandparents, however, the harbingers were of something quite different. They are suddenly, tragically, and sadly old. Neither of them is completely self-sufficient, but they manage. Perhaps their love is bittersweet. The depth and unconditional quality of their love is remarkable. I don't know if I have in me the ability to do what they do for each other. Toenails. Hair. Bathing. Shoes. Dressing.
Their love for me is palpable. I have never questioned that love, and I honestly feel more love from them as time passes. At the same time, they grow closer to each other and farther from the rest of us. In a single glance, their nearly-sixty years of marriage bolsters them. Grandpa waits patiently for Granny's coughing fit to stop, telling me simply, "Sometimes she breathes in too much air at once. This happens a lot." As he tells me this, Granny is coughing to the point of choking and clenching her crippled fingers in pain. Earlier, when I asked if Grandpa wanted to go for a ride, Granny was the one to explain that he just wasn't getting around very well. The tension that exists on some level in nearly all marriages seems to have gone away as their time together has grown painfully short.
Granny still tells the family that Grandpa gets confused and can't remember things, but the flint in her voice has softened. Grandpa still tells us that Granny is terribly demanding, but that proclamation is now a statement of fact rather than a complaint. At some point, and nobody knows when it happened, there was a shift in their relationship. They are the only two people who fully understand the truth of their marriage and the magnitude of their love.
So this place I love haunts me. I have my best fun and sharpest pain at my grandparents' farm. The hills I love are turning green and running amok over the grey of winter, but this year it is different. This year, it is as if the vitality of the surrounding hills is wicking away the lives in the house.
When I saw my grandparents, however, the harbingers were of something quite different. They are suddenly, tragically, and sadly old. Neither of them is completely self-sufficient, but they manage. Perhaps their love is bittersweet. The depth and unconditional quality of their love is remarkable. I don't know if I have in me the ability to do what they do for each other. Toenails. Hair. Bathing. Shoes. Dressing.
Their love for me is palpable. I have never questioned that love, and I honestly feel more love from them as time passes. At the same time, they grow closer to each other and farther from the rest of us. In a single glance, their nearly-sixty years of marriage bolsters them. Grandpa waits patiently for Granny's coughing fit to stop, telling me simply, "Sometimes she breathes in too much air at once. This happens a lot." As he tells me this, Granny is coughing to the point of choking and clenching her crippled fingers in pain. Earlier, when I asked if Grandpa wanted to go for a ride, Granny was the one to explain that he just wasn't getting around very well. The tension that exists on some level in nearly all marriages seems to have gone away as their time together has grown painfully short.
Granny still tells the family that Grandpa gets confused and can't remember things, but the flint in her voice has softened. Grandpa still tells us that Granny is terribly demanding, but that proclamation is now a statement of fact rather than a complaint. At some point, and nobody knows when it happened, there was a shift in their relationship. They are the only two people who fully understand the truth of their marriage and the magnitude of their love.
So this place I love haunts me. I have my best fun and sharpest pain at my grandparents' farm. The hills I love are turning green and running amok over the grey of winter, but this year it is different. This year, it is as if the vitality of the surrounding hills is wicking away the lives in the house.
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