Nurturing the Next Great Generation

Tag: grandparent stories

Can an ill Grandpa be a Good Grandpa?

  Editors note: Earlier in March, the New York Times ran a story that mentioned the Good Grandpa blog. I really didn’t know what to expect before the story ran….

 

Editors note: Earlier in March, the New York Times ran a story that mentioned the Good Grandpa blog. I really didn’t know what to expect before the story ran. When you start a blog like this, it’s a lot like talking in an empty room. If you stick with it, eventually more people enter the room and join the conversation. With the Times piece, a lot of people joined the conversation all at once. This has been both wonderful and humbling. After 9 years as a grandpa I discovered how little I really knew about the wide range of different life experiences that other grandfathers live on a daily basis. My own life is one tiny sliver of a vast galaxy that is still unfolding. The guest story I’m posting here, submitted by a grandfather in Pennsylvania, will illuminate this galaxy with a level of persevering love I could only aspire to. I hope that after you read what Dr. Lipes has shared  you will take a minute to post a comment and answer the question he’s asked in the title of his story.

Can an ill Grandpa be a Good Grandpa?

By Jan Lipes, MD

It’s not difficult at all to read stories about the “good” grandfathers. Or hear such stories told at the dinner table, at family gatherings or on the benches in the park. Good grandfathers abound everywhere.

These legions of seasoned warriors think of grandparenting as the best job they ever had; they keep pinching themselves to make sure it’s not all some kind of fantastic dream. They are astounded to see the world through eyes that have only been inspecting it for three or four years.

Grandpas are touched, they are invigorated by eyes that regard them as fountains of wisdom. They can’t wait to descend to the floor with their little colleagues, down to the railroad tracks on which little gaily painted locomotives and dining cars circle endlessly in an infinite loop that simultaneously goes nowhere and everywhere. They love the rough and tumble of tossing a little body through space at the swimming pool or at the beach and catching it in a grand gesture.

Grandpas can’t wait to be over-generous in gift giving and consider it one of their main jobs to spoil their grandchildren by granting them every wish under the sun. They positively jump at the chance to babysit. The miraculous opportunity opens up before them in which they themselves have the chance to be children once again, to see the world anew through the eyes of little ones.These stories, told by the able-bodied, the inhabitants of the domain of the well, are inspiring to read.

But what about the stories of those grandfathers who don’t dwell in the “kingdom of the well,” but rather inhabit “the kingdom of the sick,” as Susan Sontag proposed. What of us?

Yes, I am a subject of that latter kingdom. My entrance fee was a pair of legs that won’t walk for me, necessitating a wheelchair for thirty plus years, and a formerly dominant right arm that became non-functional. What of me, and those like me? Unable to indulge in those joyful interactions with my grandchildren that the “well” dwellers do, how can I experience the joy and wonder of my grandchildren?

Well, fellow Grandpas, there’s good news.

If you’re looking for some fun and meaningful things to do with your grandkids and you’re as disabled as I am, remember the Japanese saying; every defect has a hidden treasure. So how do we, the ill, find this hidden treasure? As with most issues in a disabled life, adaptation is the key to the treasure hunt. Adaptation not only ensures the survival of the species, it ensures our survival in the face of daunting challenges.

Jan giving one of his grandkids a ride.

Kids love rides in amusement parks. If you’re living the wheelchair life like me, consider yourself lucky as you needn’t drive all the way to Coney Island for the rides; you are the ride! Kids love it when they can hitch a lift on your lap or hang onto the back of your chair while all of you go speeding down the road shouting some nonsense at the top of your lungs.

Kids love checkers, cards, blocks, silly putty, pick up sticks and all manner of table games. Can’t hold a deck of cards in your hand? Adapt by getting a simple card holder. There are all sorts of simple gadgets like that which enable you to manipulate the baubles that kids love.

Museums of all kinds—from aquariums to art institutions—are great for touring with a kid on your lap. Your little wheelchair cabal offers a great opportunity for intimate chats about the things you encounter. And an added benefit is when your grandchild gets “tired.” You now adapt by becoming an Uber driver!

Dr. Lipes at a railroad museum with family.

Picasso said all children are artistic geniuses until they reach the age of seven. Well, you don’t have to stop there. Art is endlessly varied both in the finished product and the methods by which to create. Can’t use a brush? Adapt. Use your teeth, your palm, your clumsy fingers. The kids don’t care what you use but they care deeply that you are sharing the creative process with them.

Some disabled folks are embarrassed by what other people think about what they are doing or how they’re doing it. Adapt! Lose your ego! Who cares what they think, and besides, for all you know, they are regarding you with admiration!

I like to speak to school kids about disability and show off all the fancy maneuvers I can perform with my chair. The kids will crowd you with their curiosity.

It’s no secret that kids love to be read to. As a disabled grandpa, don’t abandon this oldie but goodie. There are all sorts of book holders that let you read with one hand and some that are hands-free. Seek these out; adapt!

Can’t use that old curveball pitch you used to be so good at in a game of catch or whiffle ball? Adapt to a slow, underhand style. The kids will probably get more hits anyway.

Jan playing with the grandkids.

Our barriers and obstacles are hard to bear, they are exasperating. But they must not rob you of your life with your grandchildren just because you are disabled. Adaptation is the key to unlocking their magical world.

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Back on the Trail: My Custom Boot Adventure, Part II

In April I posted about ordering a pair of custom boots with the goal of hiking again. This is the second part of the story, and—spoiler alert—there is a happy…

In April I posted about ordering a pair of custom boots with the goal of hiking again. This is the second part of the story, and—spoiler alert—there is a happy ending.

Leahy Custom Boots’ fitting process was incredibly thorough, with multiple steps: tape measuring, tracing, pressure assessment, a foam impression, creating a fiberglass mold, followed by visual observation of how I walked.

All of this, or course, was just the first phase of the fitting process. In August, Kevin Leahy shipped me a pair of “trial boots.” These were not fully finished but were sturdy enough to wear for a month to assess the fit. Not only could I determine where the boots fit well and what needed adjustment, but once the boots were shipped back to Kevin he could analyze the wear. With his 40 years of experience, Kevin could see subtle things mere mortals could not, like markings on the soles that revealed my unique walking gait and pronation.

My trial boots were made as an interim step to help further refine the fit of the finished boots.

 

I wore the boots on a short hike up Mt. Pisgah overlooking Lake Willoughby near my home in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom (NEK). Getting out on the trail for the first time felt like I’d been let out of jail. I ascended to Pulpit Rock, an outcropping that affords a breathtaking view of the lake and surrounding mountains. It would indeed be a fine place to give a sermon, except for the two-thousand-foot cliff at the edge, so the only attendees in church would be hawks and butterflies.

By the time I got home that day I fully appreciated why wearing the trial boots mattered.

I’d developed a blister on my small left toe. I sent the boots back to Kevin with photos and a note about the blister. He emailed back: “Point taken!”

Over the summer I mostly went barefoot. I literally had no shoes that fit me that didn’t cause discomfort or pain, at least for longer walks.

When the finished boots arrived in October I did a silent prayer: “Oh please, God, let them fit!”

I took the enormous (size 16 wide) boots out of the box and was immediately impressed with how heavy and solid they were. Inserting my feet and lacing up felt a bit like strapping into a glove, sturdy and supple at the same time.

Kevin advised me to break the boots in gradually over a month. Each day I’ve taken longer and longer walks, and with each step the boots have grown even more comfortable.

They are, in a word, fantastic.

For about four years my poor wife, Nancy, has gone for long walks without me, often lamenting, “I miss walking with you.” But last week we went for a hike together around Walden Pond in Concord. The fall foliage was near peak, the air brisk, the sky a Maxfield Parish blue.

When I ordered the boots in April I was thinking primarily about what they could do for ME:  get me out on the trail again, enjoy the woods, see the broad beautiful world from the mountaintops. As I held Nancy’s hand along the Walden path, I came to realize what the boots did for US.

On Kevin’s website he describes his early years as an apprentice with a German alpine boot maker in the 1970s. The skills Kevin learned have been passed down for generations.

I hope that some young apprentice has a chance to learn from Kevin and carry on this tradition.

If you want to experience the difference that custom boots can make, check out Kevin’s work. You’ll need to be patient. It can take six months or longer to get them made. And you’ll need to spend a lot more than you would for off the rack boots. But they’re worth it.

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Dear 26-Year-Old Us

Last week my wife was cleaning out an old cabinet and came across a photo taken of us on our honeymoon in London in 1985. I’d always liked this picture…

Last week my wife was cleaning out an old cabinet and came across a photo taken of us on our honeymoon in London in 1985. I’d always liked this picture and thought it had been lost, so seeing it again was a bit like finding ourselves the way we were back then. But not so long ago, really, in terms of years.

The span of time is more accurately measured in the changes we’ve been through; raising two children and all the blurred rush that entailed; and most recently, the addition of 4 gregarious and beautiful grandchildren. It wasn’t always easy getting to the present. This made me wish I could reach out to the two of us as we were at 26 and offer some sage advice.

So, here is my letter to the younger us:

Dear Ted and Nancy…

First off, I’d have to say the two of you look great. Nancy, the combination of the long wavy hair and lovely features makes you stunning. Ted, I know that you are insecure about your looks and have never felt 100% comfortable in your skin. Stop worrying.

I want you both to know that you are just at the very beginning of an amazing journey together. It’s going to happen very quickly. Nancy, you may already be pregnant, and a little girl named Abigail will join us in 9 months. And within three years we will have a son, Nicholas, who will complete the picture.

Your early years as a family will sometimes be rocky to say the least.

There will a lot of juggling of work and daycare, which will be made harder by the fact that both your kids will be sick A LOT. Not life-threatening sick, but one cold or stomach bug after the other. You will argue about which of you will stay home to care for the kids when they have a fever. You will strike bargains with each other (like, I’ll stay home today if you let me sleep late on Saturday). You will work it out time and again, and the kids will grow up to be well-balanced and charming people.

When times are tough, and when they are great, try to pause and take stock of where you are and the extraordinary gifts before you. All of it will go by so fast that when you’re older you’ll shake your head in wonder.

I’d love to go back to one of those bad days and give you a hug.

I’d tell you that it’s all going to be ok. That’s not some platitude; it’s the truth.

I wish I could help you pause time once in a while. After you’ve read to the kids in bed and they at last fall asleep, don’t rush out of the room. Take a moment to look at your slumbering Abigail and Nicholas. Experience deeply the sense of peace. Listen to the sound of their breath. Realize that these seconds are incredibly precious and transitory. Someday—despite all the vomit you have to clean up on a regular basis, the tears to soothe, and all the other troubles—you will wish you could be right back here in this moment.

Here’s some advice about your relationship.

It would be nice if you had more regular dates. Find a sitter and go out to dinner at least twice a month. You don’t have to go to a gourmet restaurant. Maybe just have coffee. Take a few minutes to talk. You’ll be the best possible parents if you nurture your relationship to the fullest.

When the kids leave for college and you are alone in your newly empty nest, it’s ok to feel very sad.

Go ahead and bawl your eyes out. So much of your purpose has been centered on raising your girl and boy. The fact that they are now grown up and strong is a sign you did a great job.

This may shock you, but it actually won’t be very long before your kids have kids. Honestly, it will feel like you blinked and suddenly there will be a bunch of grandchildren to hug and read to and make cookies with.The empty nest will be full again before you know it.

Lastly, I’d suggest you extend your honeymoon by at least a few weeks.

Drive not only through the British midlands and Wales, but also to Scotland. Go to the northernmost castle on the coast and feel the wind in your hair (especially you, Ted, because you’re going to lose it by your 40s). A wonderfully rich and busy life with children and grandchildren is before you, but there’s no need to rush ahead. Not today. Slow down and enjoy the view, and each other.

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The Mouse Autopsy: How Grandparents Can Nurture the Next Great Generation.

What do we learn from our grandfathers and how do we learn it? This question has been on my mind a lot lately. While my four grandchildren swirl and dash…

What do we learn from our grandfathers and how do we learn it? This question has been on my mind a lot lately. While my four grandchildren swirl and dash around me on these warm summer days by the lake, I know these times together are fleeting. What will I remember of this when I’m older, and what will they remember as adults?

While remembering and sharing stories has become easier thanks to the Internet, it’s still a challenge to create genuinely memorable and wisdom-rich experiences. This is something I’m working on (I know I have a lot to learn). My dad, however, was a born master at creating unforgettable experiences that helped shape my children to become the wonderful people they are today.

I invite you to come back with me to a summer day in 1999.

My wife and I were up at my parents’ house in Northern Vermont with our son and daughter. The house, which dad designed, has 9-foot tall windows overlooking the mountains. Nature is everywhere – and there is a lot of it. This neck of the woods is chock full of every variety of critter, and quite a few of them make it their business to get into the house.

Mice were the bane of my mother’s existence. Mom was a big, tall woman who loved watching Julia Child and cooking up feasts for me and my four older brothers. The sheer volume of food cooked and consumed in the house probably attracted the mice to have their own boisterous family gatherings. Mouse traps and poison were the preferred methods of extermination, yet neither worked well enough to rid the place of scurrying vermin. So when a mouse did meet its end, mom was jubilant. “Got one!” she’d exclaim.

On the day of this story, mom had sent two mice to meet their maker. “Got two!” she said, pointing with two fingers.

My dad, an MIT-educated chemical engineer, had a lifelong fascination with science. At the urging of one of his professors he learned the habit of always asking ‘why?’ So much so that when I was growing up, the word WHY! (always all caps with exclamation point) was taped to every mirror in the house.

Well, dad wanted to know why the two mice had died, but instead of asking mom he enlisted my children to conduct a science experiment. Dad explained to my wide-eyed offspring (13 and 10) that they would perform an autopsy on the mice to ascertain the cause of death. Necks broken in a trap? Poison? Something else?

Dad brought the kids out to the driveway, our de facto laboratory.

There, before my astonished and delighted children, dad stapled the mice to a big board, arms and legs splayed out and belly up. He handed my kids scalpels and told them where to cut. I looked on from a distance, chuckling and shaking my head. In hindsight the scene was like some kind of CSI Vermont episode.

In short order, both mouse stomachs were revealed to be chock full of little pink pellets of mouse poison. This was a real ‘aha’ moment for my kids. While it was just two mice, the forensic process was truly scientific in nature. My kids learned that being curious is the first vital step in discovery. In time, and with enough effort, all the secrets of the world could be revealed.

The lesson stuck.

Many years later, when my daughter spoke at my dad’s memorial service, she credited the mouse autopsy as a key experience that sparked her interest in science, and ultimately inspired her to get her Masters (speech pathology). Every child she teaches is living a more rewarding and capable life because of my daughter’s scientific viewpoint, the demand to ask WHY!, the insatiable hunger to know.

What are experiences you had with your grandparents that stuck with you, and why? What experiences are you creating now? Please share your ideas here so we can learn from each other.

My dad, William (Bill) Page, and the word he sought to teach his children and grandchildren.

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Moving Boulders in the Brook

Author’s note:  This summer as I rejoin my family at Willoughby Farm in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom I’m reminded of my grandfather. Often when I walk down to the shore and…

Author’s note:  This summer as I rejoin my family at Willoughby Farm in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom I’m reminded of my grandfather. Often when I walk down to the shore and hear the rustling brook that runs through the farm to the lake I’m brought back to a sunny day many years ago when I was helping Gramp with a chore that taught me valuable lessons. Here’s a story excerpted from my book, The Willoughby Chronicles.

I’m lying on the beach reading a Hardy Boys book and Chet’s in the middle of a speedboat race. The sun on my back feels great. I’m not quite hot enough to jump in the lake, but I’m getting there.

“Teddy!” It’s Gramp. Oh, shit, I think, he’s found me. I’m 12 and under his employ this summer to help take care of the family’s rental cottages and land by the shores of Willoughby Lake. When I’m needed, I have to help. That’s it. And there’s no point trying to complain with Gramp. A biplane pilot in the First World War, he flew reconnaissance missions to photograph the enemy lines. In the Second World War, by then a full colonel, he helped Eisenhower prepare the Allies for the invasion of Normandy, checking supplies, stocking warehouses, and generally making sure all the i’s were dotted and t’s crossed.

This is a man who knows how to get the job done.

He’s used to having his orders followed. Even now, bent with 70 years of living, Gramp’s presence is commanding. He’s tall, with a prominent nose and sharp eyes shaded by his long-brimmed khaki cap.

“Yes, Gramp?” I say.

“Teddy, there you are. I need your help in the brook.”

Gramp is leaning his weight against a thick steel crowbar longer than he is. I can’t imagine what could be wrong with the brook, but all I can manage to say is, “Sure, Gramp.” I put on an old pair of sneakers and follow him.

The brook is always cold, even on the hottest days of August. Cedar and birch trees lean over the banks and shade the clear water and the tumble of rocks. Some rocks are thick with a cushy green moss, some are polished by the current. On either side of the brook, tucked beneath tall pines, my grandparents have built barn-red cottages with fieldstone fireplaces and views of the lake—rental cottages that have to be cleaned each week in preparation for a new crop of summer tenants. Today, Gramp stands on the bank of the brook and hands the long steel bar down to me. I’m up to my ankles in the freezing water, still wondering what on earth Gramp is up to. He peers down into the water, one hand behind his back. “Now Teddy,” he says, “all we have to do is move that rock over to there.”

“This one?” I ask, pointing the heavy crowbar at a boulder that must be 400 pounds.

“Yes, move it over to there.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer. My grandfather must be getting senile; that’s the only explanation. But senile or not, I better do as he says. So I try to lift up one edge of the boulder with my bare hands. It’s like trying to budge a mountain.

“No, no,” Gramp says testily, “use the bar. Get under it.”

I use the bar as a lever, and with much gasping and grunting I move the rock about four inches.

“That’s it, you’re getting it. Keep at it, Teddy, keep at it.”

I grunt more, I push, I heave. Sweat covers every inch of my body except my ankles, which are soaking in ice water. After a half hour or so I manage to shimmy the boulder over to the side of the bank. Finally, I can get back to my book, or maybe take a swim.

“That’s just dandy,” Gramp says. “Wonderful. Just dandy. We’re almost done. Now all we have to do is move that rock there, yes—no, that one right there—yes, we have to move that rock over to there.”

The rock he’s pointing at looks like something out of Stonehenge.

I stare at it for a second, imagining Druids performing ceremonies at its base. My protest is breathy and worthless. “That’s an awfully big rock, Gramp.”

“You can do it,” Gramp says. “Just move it over to there and we’ll be almost done.”

It’s always this way with Gramp, I realize—no matter where you are with a job, even if you’ve just started, you’re almost done. It’s a mental trick you can pull on yourself. But I am not done. I have to move this boulder, and that one, and that one, and that one, and this one, and that one, and my hands are soggy and raw from hauling at the rough, wet rocks; my toes are banged up and spongy; I’m an exhausted, sweaty, mindless mess, and all I have to do is move this other rock over to there, and that will be just dandy and we’ll be almost done.

At long last, after seven hours in the brook, Gramp looks me in the eye and says, “Teddy, there’s no substitute for hard work.”

I smile and look down into the shady water. The current is swift and straight right through the center of the brook. And the banks are lined with sturdy boulders that will prevent erosion of the valuable land. This year the spring floods will do no harm. Gramp adjusts his cap and walks off with the crowbar. “Just dandy,” he says. “Wonderful. We’re all done.”

What are lessons you learned from your grandparents? Please post a comment below with a lesson or two so we can learn from each other and help nurture the next great generation.

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