This is a photo of my Dad’s parents with his two oldest sisters. I am guessing it may have been taken by the willow tree at the family farm, looks like after Grandpa came home safe after WW2..? Before my other aunt, or Dad were born.
I’m grateful, so very thankful for the family stories that keep my grandparents alive in all our hearts. I well remember living on the farm and being around Grandpa and Grandma often. How I loved them. How comfortable and safe and accepted and loved I felt with them. The scotch mints Grandpa would slip me from the bag in his pocket. How he patted the top of my head and fondly called me ‘the poor sweet child’… How he (also fondly, and certainly honestly, but somewhat less flatteringly) spoke of me as only an old farmer could; “That one’s a good little feeder- that one is.”
I recall Grandma smiling sweetly on us from her chair in the corner. Her body was no longer strong by the time I came on the scene, but she was a loving, if quieter presence in my childhood memories.
Our grandparents, and theirs, are what we’re made of. It’s fascinating to consider.
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