We spent a day with our grandson last Saturday, a kind of end-of-childhood thing, I guess, although I'm not the one to take a guess at that. He's in seventh grade--that's middle school, not elementary. He wasn't exactly assigned to us for the day, but it was made clear that it would be nice of us to volunteer to take him--the rest of the family would be out and about. We did.
He said a trip to Sioux Falls, to the Washington Pavillion would be fun, so his obliging grandparents picked him up and headed west, sort of oblivious to why he'd want to go where he did. He did mention a museum and an art gallery, and we'd been to the art gallery before; but I didn't honestly think he'd want to study paintings--and he didn't.
It was the museum he was after, a hand-on sort of place for kids. He loved the space stuff--that was the real attraction.
We took in Falls Park, too, a gorgeous place, but the Big Sioux is so low these days that the falls aren't much more than a trickle. I'm overstating, but not by much. Besides, Trickle Park just doesn't make it.
We've never been a cabin-on-the-lake family, and, I've never done many grandpa-things with my grandkids, aside from baiting hooks and unhooking sunnies when we lived on the river. I suppose I've loved my grandkids in a Schaap-grandfatherly way, which is more "at a distance" than "up-close-and-personal." When I look back on it today, for better or for worse, I'd say I've raised them in the way I was by my grandfathers.
Both of them were gone before I was ten. I sort of knew them, but have learned much more about them through the years, long after they died. I inherited much from both of them. From Grandpa Schaap, who was far more beloved as a story-teller than the preacher he was, I learned something about standing up in front of crowds I suppose, plus an earnestness about faith I've spent most of my life denying when it's been perfectly obvious that I can't nor ever will.
I have Grandpa Dirkse's familial brand of earnestness too, in spades, a piety that seems to be impossible for me to kick or lick, even though most of what comes out of these fingertips in early mornings sometimes seems a mission to shake it. Grandpa Dirkse's earnestness is the quintessential Calvinist variety, visible, hearable, in what this particular post is doing--questioning, seriously, whether or not "I've done enough," in this case, as a grandpa, a sort of woe-is-me thing that doesn't dance well. Grandpa Dirkse was heavy on guilt, personal guilt. Mine is nowhere near so unconcealed. (I know that's prideful.)
Besides, it was Grandpa Schaap who used to say--my dad told me--that you could judge what kind of father you were by the character of your grandchildren.
The fact is, I have no pictures of me with either of my grandfathers--none, zero. Neither of them were summer cabin people either. Even though Grandpa Schaap lived with us, I don't remember ever sitting on either of my grandfathers' laps, listening to stories, or even getting a hug, which is not to say that either of them were frigid or even cold.
Don't get me wrong--I'm not complaining. Indirectly, they've been an incredible influence on me. Even without their ever telling me how to live while we were up at the cabin, they both undoubtedly had a hand in my life, even if they didn't put worms on my hooks. When I think about it, I wouldn't trade the goods they left me with in either case. And I hope that Grandpa Schaap is gratified when he reads this--Grandpa Dirkse too.
I guess there's hope for this grandpa, even for this true blue-blood Calvinist variety. This morning, I'm thankful for both of them. I really am.
And my grandson. We had a wonderful day in Sioux Falls.
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