Hiking Slowly
I have lived in California most of my life. In fact, when I tell people my story, they always insist that I'm a Californian. But I'm not. I was born in Northern Michigan where my family has lived for generations. I spent every summer there as a child and I lived there for a short while as a teenager. I definitely have connections and history in California, but my roots run deep in Michigan. And those roots are the reason I love nature and hiking and pine trees and water. Those roots are my grandparents.
It's odd to say, but I am really lucky that I didn't get to live near my grandparents all year round. The limited time I had with them allowed me to have a different type of relationship. Instead of seeing them a few times a year at family gatherings or weekly dinners or whatever events gather families together, I got to spend weeks at a time with them all by myself. No hovering parents, no other cousins, just me and all of their doting attention.
My dad's dad was a mechanic, and I'm told he was one of the best. I don't remember him ever actually going to work, but I do recall him going into the shop and coming home with car parts. He had parts all over his garage and my favorite were the opened-up transmissions. I got to "help" fix those transmissions by scraping gunk out of all of the little channels on the inside with a screwdriver. If I worked really hard and my hands got dirty, I could dip them in the drum of gasoline by the door to get all the black stuff off before I went back into the house. My grandpa was always playful with us; he snapped his dentures at all the grandkids when we walked by, and when we said, "Hi, Grandpa!", he always replied, "Wish I was...". (Now that I'm grown and have raised two children of my own, I completely understand that joke.)
I know my dad's mom had a job, but I remember her always being at home. Grandma played board games with me, and always had dishes with candies in them, and purple violets in the windowsill, and windmill cookies. Grandma and Grandpa owned the plot of land behind their house and left it empty so they could have a view of the river and an easy way to get there. We would walk down and watch the water and feed the ducks. Grandma would warn us kids to leave the swans alone because they're mean. For some reason, we always followed that rule, and we would just watch the herd as they gracefully floated on the river; several stark white and always two jet black.
One of my favorite memories with them is going for a picnic lunch at a roadside park. This wasn't just any boring picnic. Grandpa would start up the motorhome and we would all climb in and head off on our journey. I could sit wherever I wanted, which often meant I roamed around from front to back (this was the '70s, seatbelts weren't a thing yet). All of a sudden, Grandma would tell me to pick a spot and sit, and Grandpa would make a big U-turn onto the roadside park with a picnic table and trees and a little waterfall and a stream. I could find rocks and walk in the water and eat my lunch and soak up that loving attention. And then we would pack up and go back home.
Another great memory I have is going across the Ironton Ferry every summer. As an adult, the nostalgia of crossing the ferry is all the fun I need. But when I was a kid, the ferry wasn't the exciting part. It was stopping at the ice cream shop on the other side. Our destination was usually a surprise when we were leaving the house, but as soon as I saw the ferry, I knew there was a big treat in my very near future.
Before I was born, my mom's dad was in the military and a featherweight boxer. I know he had a job, but I remember him as a hunter and a fisherman. He had a sink and table on the far side of the garage where he would clean his catch, and he had an old refrigerator on the other side that he turned into a smoker. He made his own wine and beer, had a big hole in the ground where he put leaves from his yard, so it was easy to collect worms for fishing. And sometimes he would send me out to the river across the street with a little container to collect crayfish to use as bait.
This grandpa didn't really play with us, so when we were invited to go for a ride or feed his dogs or go fishing, it was a big deal. I remember him taking me out to the lake (near the Ironton Ferry, actually) and letting me help put the anchor in the water. I had no idea how to bait a hook or cast a line or reel it in or unhook the fish. And, while I do remember Grandpa being frustrated at my lack of knowledge, I also know how to bait a hook and cast a line and reel it in and unhook a fish now.
My mom's mom did not work outside of the home. She gardened and canned and preserved and baked and scooped the heavy cream off of the top of the bottles of goat's milk and kept honey in the comb in her refrigerator. This grandma had closets full of beautiful old clothes and let us play dress-up with them. We would play Uncle Wiggly while we waited for the carob brownies to cool. She let me wear her hat and gloves that were too big when we went out to the garden to pick vegetables for dinner, and then I got to ring the dinner bell when it was time for Grandpa to come in and eat. We would walk across the street where I could dip my toes in the river and Grandma would push me in the swing a few times before buying fruit at the farmers market on the way home.
These are the memories I hold dear to me. Rivers, streams, waterfalls, and lakes all surrounded by lush, green trees and rocks and sandy shores. These are the places that I will bring generations after me to tell stories about my grandparents. Places like these bring me peace and joy, and I will continue to search them out and soak up that energy as long as I am able.
