Value of grandparents often unappreciated
It’s fair to say that my grandmother hasn’t had an easy life. The eldest of twin girls who were the youngest in a family of nine children, she lost her mother aged about three, was raised by a sister, battled scarlet fever and then tuberculosis in her teens, began working in the Oamaru Woollen Mills aged 14, had to bike six miles to work each day on what would have been rough gravel roads, raised six children in challenging times (boiling the copper to wash nappies, anyone?) and lost her husband to cancer in 1986, before having to give up the knitting and reading she loved because of failing eyesight.
I don’t recall ever hearing her complain. She was always content to ‘‘watch the world go by’’ but when asked how she coped with all the challenges that came her way she was fairly philosophical: she ‘‘just knuckled down and got on with it’’.
Nan was of that generation where life was all about making do and getting on with it. I like to think I’ve inherited some of her stoicism and practicality.
She turned 100 this week. I wrote a story about her for the paper on Wednesday. It was a small story – it’s hard to hold a conversation with her and I don’t visit as often as I should. Poor health in recent years has robbed her of the vitality and toughness she once had, so it’s difficult to see how tired and frail she’s become.
I’ve always admired her toughness. I hope I’ve inherited that trait, too. I know my love of caramel comes from her caramel slice that was always in the cupboard, while I’m sure the fact she had hens is why I’d always wanted chickens. She was always so happy to be out collecting pine cones – I figure that’s why I like collecting wood for winter.
Nan was hardy. She cooked on a coal range right up until she moved into care about five years ago. She always cut the kindling for the fire . . . despite cutting off her index finger more than 40 years ago . . . and despite her failing eyesight. They were bred tough back then.
When you’re young, you don’t really appreciate grandparents. You sort of take them for granted and don’t tend to value them as much as you should. It’s not intentional, it’s just you don’t know how important they are. They can seem so old and life has changed so much for them that it’s difficult to make that connection.
Having two children, I now get grandparents. It’s not just about the babysitting or their ability to drop everything in a time of crisis to help, but it’s the importance of family and that connection to people and a place. I was lucky to have both sets in my life for many years and I look back fondly at the times spent with them.
It’s often the little things: running errands, going to Anderson Park, or eating pear meringue pudding with Grandma.
Pop’s luscious vege garden and the love, despite the hard times they’d had, that his children showed him while he was dying of cancer.
Granddad’s gruffness, love of bowls and racing, and the love and pride he had in his grandchildren – I grow peas because he did and used to growl at us (‘‘get out of those bloody peas!’’) when he found us scoffing them. But I know he loved that we ate them.
All those experiences and their influences have played an important part in me developing into the person I’ve become. There’s a little piece of each of them in me, both in a genetic sense and in a spiritual sense. They’ve helped form how I live and behave in the world. They unknowingly help define who I am, and inevitably who my children will become (my two love caramel slice and peas from the pod).
I’ve heard it said that grandparents love having grandchildren because it reminds them of how much fun their children were during the good times, without the pressures of being a parent. And they can spoil them without having to worry about the repercussions later. They’re not necessarily there for all of the bad times, so it’s sort of a rose-tinted nostalgia trip for them. Or it could simply be a reminder that children are a joy.
I’m incredibly grateful for my children’s grandparents – it’s one of the reasons we returned to live in Southland. Knowing someone has got our back in times of trouble is invaluable. Having their involvement in their upbringing is so important. Let’s hope that they can have the same experiences with their grandparents that I did for a long time to come.
Mark Hotton is a journalist and father of two who really should be painting his hallway this weekend but is skiving off to watch football in Dunedin instead. He’ll pay for that later.