A young lady, just graduated last year from the University of Kentucky, a former Sonlight Curriculum student, wrote a beautiful remembrance of her grandparents on her mother’s side.

I asked her for permission to reprint a portion of it here. I thought it illustrated so well the kinds of things those of us on the giving end might want to consider: What do we do that could create unique and memorable family traditions? How would we like to be remembered?

Read this story and tell me how it inspires you:

Even as a child, I could see that my grandparents were in love with each other. They were practically inseparable, and they always put the other person’s interest before their own.

My grandmother took care of both of them when it came to food, clothes, and all other issues requiring domestic common sense. My grandfather set adventurous goals for them both and saw to it that they were carried out; things like driving to Alaska and planting a garden.

For my entire life, my grandfather was never in good health. He suffered from diabetes, multiple heart problems, and something I’m not sure of that took his once booming voice and distorted it into a small, raspy one. I never got to hear what I imagine was the clear solid voice of a general, but my mother insists it was grand. Despite his poor health, Grandpa Maynard was full of life and kindness, and he never let his physical illness undermine his mental agenda. He was always willing to teach my brothers and I new crafty skills as well as lessons in character.

A true cowboy at heart, Grandpa Maynard would take us camping, teaching us how to set up a tent, make a fire, and open a can of beans with a pocketknife. He took us hiking and canoeing, and taught us to make fisherman’s knots so our scaly catches wouldn’t get away. He showed us how to plant carrots and pick oranges without damaging the tree. We would play poker for hours on end with Mexican pesos, eating pork rinds and popcorn with Mexican seasoning on it, while sporting silly hats, which were required of everyone sitting at the table.

Grandpa would let us pick out patterns for projects we could make in his workshop, showing us how to use his scroll saw, sander, and a thousand other hand and power tools, treating us as equals while still watching out for our safety. . . .

One of my strongest memories concerning my grandparents is tied to an old fashioned white burlap sack that was originally made for Rough Riders to carry money from place to place on their horses. Looking back, I’d say it was probably a replica, but if you had asked me at the time, I would have sworn its authenticity up and down. We called it “The Money Bag,” and excitement would overtake my brothers and me upon glimpsing the plain sack. You see, it was a game we were privileged to play.

Just before we would come for a visit, or before they left to come visit us, Grandpa would take “The Money Bag” to the bank and buy change to replenish what we had taken the last time we’d seen him. Each visit, he’d get out “The Money Bag” once and only once. Then, beginning with the youngest, each grandkid was allowed to stick his or her hand in the burlap sack, with the goal of pulling out as much change as their hand could hold. Any change that fell out of your grip while transitioning the handful from bag to table did not belong to you, and it was required that the fallen money be put back in the bag. In other words, you could only keep what you could hold in one hand.

For weeks before a visit, I would practice stretching my hand as much as I could, willing a larger grip. When Grandpa would pull out that bag, my heart would begin to race. It was hard to breathe as I awaited my turn, and even harder when my hand slowly became immersed in the cold, hard coins. Forming my hand into a claw, I tightly grasped the change, but not too tightly, having learned from past experience that too tight a grip could be responsible for a loss of coins on the way out.

There is great strategy involved in such a practice, and concentration is key. Once my hand was out of the bag, the pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, and occasional half dollars sparkled and gleamed in the daylight. Setting the bright array of coins carefully onto the table, Grandma would help us count our haul, carefully writing our names and the amount we had obtained on zip lock baggies to put our treasure in, so as not to confuse our winnings with another sibling’s.

Grandpa was careful to include equal amounts of all different coin denominations, never being too liberal with pennies.

Depending on what age or hand size we were at the time, we would acquire anywhere from $4 to $18, which, when you think about it, isn’t very much. But the amount is not what made it great. This “Money Bag” tradition was held sacred to all who participated, not because it was a good way to make fast cash, but because it was unique; and since it was designed especially for us, it made us feel special.

Year after year, the “Money Bag” ritual endured.

As I grew from a child into a teenager, the money itself did not seem as wonderful, but I still noticed a sparkle as I pulled a handful of loot from the bag, the tradition never growing stale. Some of the rules changed over time. For instance, as my brothers’ hands grew bigger and bigger, Grandpa was forced to make a $20 limit. But reaching into that burlap sack was always something my brothers and I looked forward to, and we felt great pride when we would tell our friends about the tradition and they would stare at us unbelievingly, wishing their grandparents would let them dip their fingers into a big bag of money.

Time passed and Grandpa Maynard’s health declined more every year. He and Grandma were no longer able to gallivant around the country, and although my family still visited them in Florida, the visits became infrequent as my brothers and I grew older and developed lives that involved active social calendars and school events. When we did see them, Grandma was preoccupied with worry over Grandpa, and Grandpa was tired and unable to participate as actively in our lives as he had in the past. The poker games continued, but they were far shorter and less lively than the ones we were used to. However, even in his ill, exhausted state, Grandpa still made it a priority to get change from the bank to fill “The Money Bag” whenever he was going to see us. Seemingly small, this gesture reminded us of all the things he used to do with us, and still would be doing were it not for his stubborn body. And so this single tradition reminded us of how much he loved us, and it continued until his death.

My grandparents were such a complement to each other that, when Grandpa passed away, Grandma was unable to live without him. Technically, she lived for a few years after his death, but to all of us who knew and loved her, it was obvious that she died the same day he did.

With both my grandparents gone, there was no one to carry on the tradition of “The Money Bag,” and I pushed it from my mind, not meaning to forget, but doing just that.

Years have gone by since I lost Grandma and Grandpa Maynard, but last Christmas they came back to life.

One of my older brothers got to thinking about “The Money Bag,” and, realizing how much it had meant to him, how much it had meant to all of us, he began searching websites until he found what he was looking for: a company that manufactured moneybags just like Grandpa Maynard’s.

He ordered not one, but six moneybags: one for each of us kids, and one for my parents to share.

On Christmas morning he had all of us simultaneously open our identical presents and, as each of us stared in awe at our burlap bags, all of our memories of Grandma and Grandpa Maynard came flooding back. The bags we were holding represented our childhoods. The camping, the woodworking, the oranges, the bad driving, the pop tarts, the shopping trips: all came back to us in a flash, and all we could do was stare at those bags and marvel at the people our Grandparents had been.

At that moment, I truly understood the notion that the people we love never really die as long as we still love them and hold onto memories of time spent with them. Whoever I am now, and will become in the future, owes a lot to the things my Grandparents taught me. The knowledge and experience they bestowed on me, and the example of pure love they displayed for each other, are things that will always be a part of me and will continue to shape me in the years ahead.

Someday I hope to be to my grandchildren what my grandparents were to me, and you can rest assured that when the time comes, I’ll be at the bank filling my moneybag for them to reach their hands into; and I’ll be careful not to include too many pennies.

–Thanks, Kari!

(No Ratings Yet)

 Loading ...

 |  Email This Post  |  Print This Post  |  Subscribe to It!
This entry was posted on Thursday, April 9th, 2009 at 9:51 pm and is filed under heritage, inheritance, kids, legacy. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.