On Being A Grandparent

Being a grandparent to nine grandchildren can be challenging, especially when most of them live far away. Distance leaves a gap that we try to bridge with FaceTime calls, small presents, and visit arrangements. It becomes even harder when the other grandparents are nearby or can visit often, and the children express a preference for spending time with them rather than with you. I didn't have a good experience with the one grandparent I had when I was young, so I am concerned about my own grandparenting style, and I fear I might repeat it.

Three of my nine grandchildren when they were little.

I only had one grandparent living when I was a child. My mother's father, who clearly preferred my sister to me, found me annoying and busy. He ignored me as much as he could. My father's parents were gone by the time I was born, and my mother's mother passed away a year or so after my birth. I have been envious of my friends who had doting grandparents. When I had my first grandchild, I was determined to do my best to be an attentive and loving grandparent, to give my grandchildren what I never had while growing up.    

Today, while talking to my daughter, my grandson listed off his grandparents he loved, and then, when asked about my husband and me, he said no, he didn't. A week prior, my granddaughter refused to talk to me. My children respond that they are children and don't know better. Yes, I realize they don't know better. They are children, and because of their age, they don't have a filter. Truth is being spoken. It hurts. These comments make me feel like a failure at what I promised I would become for my grandchildren, even though I visit, talk, and give them what I can. I shouldn't let it bother me, but it does. Could it be connected to my own lack of grandparents? As hard as I try, I keep revisiting my relationship with my own grandfather to find out.

Family picture on the front porch on Risley Street in Hancock. First Row L>R Auntie Mur, GrandpaPorter, Aunt Margie Second Row L>R Dad, Me(On his lap), Grandma Porter, Nicky(dog), Mom   

In my day, my parents made it clear that I had to respect my grandfather, even though he treated me coolly. My grandfather loved to tease me. He called me Queenie because my parents spoiled me. I got away with a lot more than my sister and brother did. When I was five, we were visiting my grandfather and my aunt in East Hampton, and one morning, he kept calling me "Queenie." Furious after the fifth or sixth time, I turned, stomped my foot, and spat at him. My father, who was sitting nearby, grabbed my arm and led me outside to talk. He asked me why I spat at my grandfather. I told him. He understood why, but my father still reprimanded me. I was told it was disrespectful. I got spanked and told to apologize. He walked me back in, and I stood in front of my grandfather and apologized for being disrespectful. Dad sent me to the room where I was staying for the rest of the day.

Thanksgiving 1957 at Risley Street

About an hour later, a knock came at the door, and my grandfather shuffled into the room. My grandfather was a striking older man with Santa Claus white hair and sky-blue eyes. He always wore a plaid flannel shirt, corduroy pants, and perfectly shined brown church shoes. He perpetually had either a cigar or a pipe in his mouth. I sat up on the bed that I had dramatically thrown myself across an hour earlier and looked at him with a frown. He stood just inside the door with a somber look on his face and puffing on his pipe. After a few moments, he pulled his pipe from his mouth, looked down at the floor, and said, "Look, I'm sorry I made you so mad that you felt you needed to spit at me. I won't call you Queenie ever again." He then stepped toward the bed, reached toward me with a closed fist, and placed folded bills in my hand. "Here, take it. Dry your eyes and come downstairs. I'll take you to the Five and Dime after lunch, and you can get yourself a treat." He turned and walked out the door and shut it. After he left, I looked down at my hand with the folded bills that smelled of Edgeworth pipe tobacco and Old Spice. I unfurled them and found two five-dollar bills. Later, after lunch, he loaded my sister and me in his car and drove us to the Five and Dime just as he promised. Maybe my grandfather did love me in the only way he knew how–– through acts of service. I never believed he loved me the way he loved my sister, but I did have a special place in my heart for him, especially after I learned his story when I got older.

Grandpa with my sister Gail at the house in Goshen

My grandfather was the son of an alcoholic dad who had left his family when my grandfather was 13 years old. His only brother had already moved out and was living in another state, married with his own family. My grandfather was forced to leave school at 13 years old, get a job to support his mother, and keep the family home. He became an electrician and telephone line installer. He was an original Bell Telephone technician and helped to raise the original telephone poles and install phones in businesses and homes across New York state. He worked for Bell Telephone till he retired in the 1950s. He married my grandmother when she was pregnant with my aunt and then raised two other daughters, while continuing to support his mother till she passed away. His father had disappeared for several years until one day, the police from a nearby town reported he was found behind the bar where he worked, dead. My grandfather never forgave his father for the lot that had been forced upon him at an early age.

Nanny in her element.

My grandfather never called me Queenie again, but we didn't grow closer. My sister stayed his favorite. Years later, when he was diagnosed with liver cancer, we traveled to East Hampton for what we felt might be our last chance to see him. One cold morning during our visit, I came downstairs and found him sitting on the back deck in his lounge chair, his coat and hat on, a blanket over his legs. His hands were outstretched, and chickadees were eating birdseed from the palm of his hand, while several perched on his shoulders, waiting for their turn. Luckily, I had my camera and snapped a picture of my grandfather at his most tender moment. This scene is how I chose to remember the man. A man who was rough on the outside, but deep inside, the birds sensed his gentleness, along with his willingness to care for them. I have since lost the photo of my Grandfather feeding the birds, but it is a sight I will never forget.

When it comes to my own grandchildren, I hope and pray that they will remember me kindly and know how much I love them.

Rest in peace, Grandpa. (Laurence Porter 1889-1974)