Grandparents

    There was laughter as grandma and I found all the pockets in my warm winter jacket, filling them with chocolate-chip cookies, while the rest of my family waited out in the van. I felt as if half the lining in my jacket had become extremely edible. I turned towards the door with a smile on my six-year old face that could have melted the sun, as I looked up at Grandpa: tall, thin, and smiling back at me. My smile slowly turned to a frown.
      'Is Mom gonna tell me to give the cookies back?'
      'You just tell your momma,' he said, swooping down to pick me up, looking me in the eyes, 'that Harold and Carol said you could have 'em.' My smile returned to my face as I squeezed him around the neck.
      'You better get goin' Jimmy,' said Carol. Harold set me down and I ran over to Carol and gave her a hug, cuddling into her as if she were a human pillow.
      'Love you,' I said.
      'I love you too, sweety.'
      Then I ran outside, my feet crunching in the snow. I jumped into the mini-van, sliding the door shut. Mom, of course, did not tell me to give back the chocolate-chip cookies.
     There are few people in my life who have been as important to me as Harold and Carol Schumacher, and few places on the Earth that have given my family the warm stability as the small farm in Wycoff, Minnesota. All three of us kids would tingle with excitement whenever Mom and Dad would surprise us with plans to go down to Harold and Carol's for the weekend.
      It always feels the same when we pull into their driveway to see the warm light on in the kitchen: it feels like we've come home. Ten miles of wheat fields and wooded hills surround the white, two-story house that sits off to the right of the road. Past the gravel driveway and the house is the barn: big, red, and towering over the yard with its door open in a constant yawn. Using the barn as a shelter are a group of barn cats and a bunch of chickens, both of which find their way to the house whenever company shows up.
      Three steps up and into the house is the entryway with a large oak door leading into the kitchen. Swinging the oak door inward, one can see a rectangular table set up parallel with the window that looks outside to see who's coming. This table always seemed to be filled with our favorites whenever we'd stop by: Mom's devilled eggs, Dad's wild-rice sausage, Abe's sweetcorn, my angel food cake with strawberries, and enough cookies for everyone.
From the entrance you can see into the living room, a room filled with memories and pictures. There's a square table that sits just to the left of the doorway when you walk into the room, with hanging plants hooked around its end. A TV was placed in a corner next to the table out of the way, but they said they never used it for much more than watching the news every so often. Carol said that Harold would really use the TV more to play Nintendo than for watching the news.
      Over to the right was where we kids would usually sack out for the night. One of us would get the sofa while the other two would lie on the floor next to the rocking chair that Harold had made. As a boy, I would curl up by Harold's tall legs as he rocked back and forth in his hand-made chair. Mom, Dad, He, and Carol would talk as I fell slowly asleep, listening to the soft hum of his voice.
      Harold seemed like a tree to me. He was tall, thin, and had white hair. He never spoke much, but he never had to. All his feelings were portrayed on his wise face. He had a smile that could calm the ocean, and a pair of blue eyes that never lost their sparkle. For me, his calmness was felt in front of the intricate checkerboard that he had made to play a round or two. For my sister, it was a round of tickles and giggles while parading around the house as 'Harold's Little Princess', riding on top of his shoulders. It was a silent conversation, though, that we would often have in front of the checkerboard, save for the occasional comments.
      'Ya got me,' I would say, letting out a large breath I had been holding unconsciously.
      'Oh, I don't know about that,' he'd say with a wink.
      'Now Dad, you go easy on Jimmy,' Carol would say.
      'Oh, I will.'
      Carol stands at a short five feet and has the resemblance of a soft pile of pillows, always welcoming the next person with a hug, folding them into her bosom bouncing with laughter. Her face, lined with wrinkles, is decorated with a pair of large, thick glasses. I remember thinking that both were the result of knowing so much, and that I wanted to grow up knowing as much as she did. For Carol, my brother and I were always 'her boys', and would never mind being frequented with hugs when the opportunity arose.
      'Commere an' give Grandma a hug,' she would say, and both of us would happily oblige.
More than anything, Carol has always been the closest a woman can be to an ideal grandmother. She always treated us like her 'real' grandkids, and always went out of her way to make us smile. During Easter one year, she decided to try and make it extra special. Her idea of special was to buy certain types of chickens so that they would lay different colored eggs: the real thing for any six-year old boy on an Easter-Egg hunt.
      It's as if both of them had legally adopted every one of us, including my parents. I remember too, thinking of them as my 'real' grandparents. They were there when my parents were married, when my brother and sister were born, and when I was born, being some of the first hands to hold me after birth. Moreover, they will be there for me when my children are born, at least in my heart, if not in person.
It's been almost a year now since the cold winter night that we had received a call from Carol. That didn't happen to often, but when it did, it was always fun to update each other on what we'd been up to. The reaction of my mother when she first picked up the phone was much like my reaction as a little boy when I had turned to face Harold, towering over me with a smile; however, her smile did not return. Almost a year ago now, Harold passed away. We were all shocked with disappointment, but knew for some time that his death would be coming soon. He was 75 years old, and had been fighting cancer for eleven.
      As fate had it we had just returned to Bemidji after making a visit the previous weekend and we'd made sure to take lots of pictures while we were there. The thought that it might be the last time we would see Harold hadn't failed to cross all our minds. Out of all the pictures taken during that time there is one that has engrained itself into my memory: it's a picture of Harold sitting in his old rocking chair, waving good-bye. He never did lose his calm smile or the sparkle in his eyes.
      Like it is for Carol, though, I don't believe that Harold can ever truly be 'gone' from our lives. His calm, overpowering warmth still lives on in me. When the time comes for Carol, too, I will miss her hugs and her voice full of life and love. However, it has been these people who have cared and loved so much for so little in return, that have taught me to do the same. And for that, they will always be remembered as grandparents.