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Family: Remembering the important things

It seems so much of life is work and routine and then more of the same.
13971407_web1_Mielke

It seems so much of life is work and routine and then more of the same.

Perhaps, that is why we have grandchildren.

Grandchildren are the little pockets of joy that somehow bubble up out of nowhere, making even the most routine filled day so very much better.

And they seem to do so without even trying.

The reason is, of course, that grandmas such as myself have finally grown up enough to know that not being grown up is probably the very best thing to be.

Only immature people forget about what is really important in life. For one thing, they think they need to worry a lot, despite all the advice out there that dates back to Biblical times.

“Live in the moment! Smell the roses! Be mindful! Be grateful! Don’t worry. Be happy! Lots of people who, apparently, know about such things, say that.

But, still, before we become mature enough to realize the importance of being immature and playing in the leaves and laughing over nothing much at all, we let worry rob us of those privileges.

We worry about money. We worry about the weather. We worry about the price of gas and the price of pretty much everything. And we worry about getting old.

I’m glad I finally became a grandma and had grandchildren who were wise enough to keep me too busy laughing and playing and having fun to worry.

“Hey, grandma, do you want to walk down to the river and bring some carrots for the horses and go a new, secret way?”

As it turned out the secret way meant taking my life in my hands and slipping and sliding down this hill that had no business being called a hill but was definitely a mountain in disguise.

“Sure,” I said, immediately giving myself something to worry about if I would have had time to think.

“Would I survive? Could I live to tell the tale?”

I did, of course, and the walk along the river was exactly as a walk along a river should be and it filled my heart, that moments before, was beating faster than the sixteenth notes I am trying to master on the piano, with incredible joy.

And as we walked, the dog, Molly who is one of those cross-breeds that cost a lot of money but still just wants to eat scraps from the table and be petted like any old mutt, raced crazily ahead of us. Overhead the sun melted the western sky to a lovely shade of tangerine and, under our feet, the leaves crunched with satisfying crunches.

When we arrived home another grandson wanted to show me his slap shot which, I say, without a hint of prejudice, rivals that of hockey great Wayne Gretzky.

The child got so caught up in perfecting his slap shot that darkness fell and still the sound of the puck hitting the huge plastic goalie in the net at the end of driveway could be heard again and again.

I leaned against my car and watched him, but in my mind I saw another young man. Over and over he would fire a tin can into the wooden coal shed in our back yard. My brother never did make it to the big leagues, except in his imagination, which, perhaps, in the end is just as good as being there.

Finally we go in where lights and warmth and apple crisp and ice cream await us.

The boy’s noisy chatter fill the silence of the evening and I savour it as much as the delicious desert.

Now it’s back to work and routine one more time.

But, still, there is the sweet, sweet memory of yesterday.

And the promise of tomorrow!

Treena Mielke lives in Sylvan Lake and is editor of the Rimbey Review.