My grandparents, my mom’s parents, lived in the same little village on the Canadian prairies as me and my family, all through my school age years. They lived in a tiny old house. No flush toilet.
One very strong memory of Grandpa is that he would walk the block to our house almost every day to fetch a pail of water. It was a red pail, probably 3 gallons. Now, my memory says that they didn’t have running water, but maybe the red pail was just for drinking water. I do know that if you needed a toilet there, it was either the outhouse or the “cash & carry” pot on their tiny, tiny second floor.
So it was completely normal for him to be seen walking down the street with a red pail. One way it would swing by his side and the other way it was a load of precious water.
He would always sit at the table for a quick visit amongst our lively, chaotic household, adding his two cents in to whatever topic was at hand. He also loved to get in on my mom’s baking or cooking when possible. Grandma was not so good in the kitchen. No one ever questioned his presence, although maybe my dad disliked it. (My dad is a story that cannot possibly be explained in this post about my grandpa.)
I’m probably still a bit younger than he was at that time. He seemed so old to me. We mostly enjoyed a good relationship, but it wasn’t really close and there were times that he was annoying.
After I grew up and got married, I saw him only occasionally. I regret that now. I wish I knew more about his upbringing and his parents and grandparents, etc.
I have so many relatives, but dysfunction has gotten in the way of being close.
Seniors are a treasure of information, history and wisdom. It’s crazy to me that we aren’t taught (at least I wasn’t) to treasure those precious souls while we have them.
“Is not wisdom found among the aged? Does not long life bring understanding?” – Job 12:12
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