I realized something the other day. Something that makes me a bit sad.
I’ve forgotten a lot of things about my grandfathers.
One of them died when I was three, the other when I was six. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been with them. I miss them still.
I don’t remember what their aftershave smelled like. What their voices sounded like.
A few years ago I learned from my uncle Phil that my Grandpa Riggs couldn’t sing. I’d always imagined he could. Funny how memory can do that kind of trick.
When I wrote about Granddad’s relationship with Evelyn in My Mother’s Chamomile, I wished that I could have had more time with my grandfathers. So, I wrote what I imagined a relationship between grandpa and granddaughter could be.
You know, it felt a whole lot like home.
That’s what I remember about my Grandpa Relf. When I sat with him, watching football, that was home. When he’d let me try on his glasses or hearing aid, that was home.
It’s what I remember about my Grandpa Riggs. When he’d tease me and tell me jokes, I felt at home. When he’d smile, making the corners of his blue eyes crinkle, I felt at home.
When I want to remember what home meant during my childhood, I let my memory take me back to my grandpas.
Your turn. What makes you feel at home? What do you remember of those who have defined home for you? If they have passed away, and you’re comfortable sharing, I’d love for this to be a day of memory and honoring.