Fond memories of Grandpa and Grandma
My grandpa loves the newspaper.
During the summers when I was younger, we used to stay at my grandma and grandpa's house. We didn't like daycare, and my grandma was more than willing to watch us.
There are plenty of memories I have of my grandma's house, but the most distinct one is walking down her long, twisting driveway to get the newspaper.
Maybe it was just another way of encouraging us to get out of the house and away from mid-day cartoons, but my grandma would always walk to the end of her driveway, just to get the paper for my grandpa.
Their driveway was always long, but to me it went on forever.
Trees shade their house from the sun, but the driveway is exposed to all the light it has to offer. Corn fields bloom on both sides. Tall grass and milkweed grow in the ditches.
Bumblebees and butter ies used to swarm this area. It was simply beautiful.
Sometimes it was a race between my brother, my sister and I to the end of the driveway, and sometimes we were content walking with my grandma. Our hands linked and were always swinging.
Of course she read the paper too, but once my grandpa got home he would sit down in his well-worn recliner, turn on the lamp next to his chair, put on his reading glasses, and then unfold the newspaper.
My small hands could never grasp the paper like he could. I still can't hold the paper quite right, but I'm still in practice.The newspaper has a certain smell to it, sort of like an older book would smell. Do you ever just go to the library and open up books just to smell the pages? If it’s only me, I feel weird admitting it, but I do.
My grandpa would always reach over the side of his chair, pointing to the punch line of the week, printed in the second page of the paper.
The jokes always went over my head and he would always have to explain them to me.
After he was done he would set the comic pages in front of me, and I would sit and read them under his lamplight.
My grandpa is a quiet man, content with silence. Something about imagining him sitting on his recliner with a newspaper is utterly relaxing to me. Maybe because he himself never relaxes. He’s always on the move, always doing things for others.
He retired long ago, but he keeps working anyway.
I can imagine him reading this, in his recliner, squinting through reading glasses, with the light of the lamp illuminating his face.