What makes grandparents so grand

I noticed the elderly gentleman first at the pre-departure security queue at the Sydney airport. He was in front of me in the line, all six feet of him and his head of snow-white hair, visible from far away. I decided he was around 70. I was studying his double-vented, navy blazer from behind as the line inched forward. It fit impeccably, I thought. He was toting a little girl no more than four years of age, among many other things: his briefcase, the child’s backpack, a stroller and a furry, stuffed teddy bear. 

Clearly encumbered, he was struggling to transfer this entire load onto the conveyor belt, while exhorting the child to stay put, pretty please, if only for one minute, so they could clear the x-ray checks in no time. But the child wasn’t interested in his pleadings and went exploring the other way. 

I sympathized with the gentleman and picked up the teddy bear and the backpack that were by then on the floor. I lay them on the belt, while he played tug of war with his feisty four-year-old. This went on for a while so I overtook them and settled on my seat at the departure gate. Next thing I knew, he deposited his things beside me and went chasing after the little girl who had sprinted back to the far side of the gate. 

“Madison, please come here,” or “Madison, please stop,” was about all he ever said as we waited to board our flight from Sydney to Singapore.

He managed to alight two seats away from me for a few seconds every couple of minutes, whenever something of interest, which momentarily stopped her in her tracks, caught Madison’s attention. 

“Granddaughter,” he said to me in one of those rest intervals, just as I had earlier guessed. I was about to ask him where the parents were but just then his phone rang and the conversation explained everything.

It was his daughter and he was placating her over the state of Madison and assuring her of his competence at having everything under control. He kept saying, “No worries, Emily, she’s doing just fine. I got this and, yes, I gave her her medicine on schedule. She’s still sniffling but no cough, no fever. Yes, yes. Don’t worry. I’m all right, thank you.” There was a little bit more placating from his end before they said their goodbyes.

“She’s a handful,” he said over his shoulder as he was passed me by during one of his comings and goings while chasing Madison. He was getting out of breath so I told him, “You could have a seat and let her run around while keeping a close eye. She can’t go far. It’s safe.”

He smiled and said, “Thanks, but too precious a cargo to let loose.”

“It’s nice of you to agree to transport her all the way to Singapore,” I said. 

“Oh, but I volunteered. My daughter, Madison’s mother, lives here in Sydney, you see, and Madison needs to visit with her father in Singapore. My daughter is down with a bug and is not able to take her as planned, so here we are.”

The word “hero” flashed in my mind.

“The child has been so excited to see her father  no point in delaying,” he added. “It’s not as easy as I thought but it’s all right,” he said.

His struggle to get Madison and all their belongings onto the plane got a bit more dramatic since the girl had erupted into a full-blown temper tantrum. By the time they got their seats, which was two rows away from mine, Grandpa’s immaculate navy blazer was off one arm, the sleeve dangling down his back and grazing the floor.  Madison was on the crook of one arm and teddy, backpack and stroller on the other. His once well-coiffed head was now a cloud of white wisps falling onto his temples every which way. His spectacles had slid down the bridge of his nose, pinching his nostrils. He trudged along the narrow aisle, careful to balance child and belongings until they reached the safety of their seats.  

It didn’t end there. Madison had a cold so cabin pressure got the better of her for most of the flight. She was inconsolable and Grandpa did everything including a manic rain dance to amuse her in that eight-hour flight. By the time we landed in Singapore, Grandpa’s blazer was crumpled into a messy ball and shoved into the backpack. His shirt was untucked in some places, totally crumpled and with bright red juice stains on the chest area.  His glasses were somehow broken en route. But even if he deplaned looking like excess baggage, his spirit was hardly dampened. He thanked the cabin crew and flashed everyone bright smiles before trudging along with Madison, who, only then had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

This was fresh in my mind when we had my father and two of his five brothers over for lunch last Sunday.  Solicitous as he is to his grandchildren, I can’t imagine my father ever doing that  hard labor. But he had paid his dues  done his duty to me, my mom and God and country. He was a very hands-on father, caring for me exactly like that grandpa took care of Madison. He’s more than off the hook. 

My cousins and I spoke about how our fathers are doting grandpas, whether or not they were “involved” fathers while we growing up. It must be the times, we all agreed.  Men now are more nurturing across the board.

My late grandpa wasn’t like that. We greeted him properly to which he replied in kind with a nice word or two and a ruffling of our hair on a good day. But the moment we misbehaved, we were whisked as far away from him as possible. I had this stern image of him and his presence somehow incited some fear in me.

It is sad when I think of it, I would have loved to have gotten to know him, especially now that I discover how much I enjoy the company of elderly gentlemen and their insightful conversations. There is so much wisdom and grace and humor in the way they view life and the way they live it.

I watched my father with my children, thankful for the ease and the rapport among them. That Sunday, he found common ground with them (as he always manages to), connecting on the subject of his Sunday, dress-down jeans and Converse sneakers, which the kids adore and his iPhone and iPad, which he continues to wrestle with.  Norman Rockwell moment, I thought to myself and took that opportunity to count my blessings.

I can imagine, though, how many grandpas want to connect with their grandkids yet can’t figure out a way to start. Here are some tips I’ve garnered from online: Take the time to get to know your grandchildren and do things that are interesting to both you and them. Give them your time and with it, a sense that time can be “stretched”  that you don’t need to hurry through activities. This gives them the psychological space to feel, reflect and express emotions without feeling rushed. These small things communicate your interest and affection and, as experienced has shown us all, it is as therapeutic for the grandparents as it is for the grandchildren to be deeply involved in each other’s lives. 

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Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.