Granby
During my holiday visit to the town where I grew up, tiny Henderson, Neb., I walked by the house where my grandparents once lived. My grandfather died six years ago, and my grandmother soon downsized to an independent-living complex. The new owners have moved on to a nursing home themselves, so the house remains empty. Like many rural towns, most people here are age 60 and above.
Give it a few more years and the town could dry up and blow away.
The last bastion of youth burned down this summer. Back when I was a kid, the Sno Queen Drive In, with its yellow fluorescent lights and homemade soft-serve, was the hub of summer activity. Outside, teenagers sat on picnic tables beneath a fruit tree and hurled pears at passing Camaros, Trans Ams and pickups, radios blaring. The Sno Queen was a gathering place, a destination for families on bicycles. With a succession of owners, everyone in town seemed to take turns at making a go of the fast-food joint. I don’t know how the Sno Queen ignited, though a grease fire would have been most fitting. Now it’s a parking lot for the neighboring grain elevator.
At Thanksgiving, I was compelled to stand in my grandparents’ old backyard remembering. Below the bedroom window was the retaining wall where a fox sometimes curled up at night. I remembered finding foil-wrapped chocolate Easter eggs hidden all over the yard, and the guests who gathered for my aunt’s outdoor wedding in the ’70s. (Instead of a veil, she wore a kerchief.)
Earlier, I had visited my 88-year-old grandmother in the nursing home. As we talked, I found myself bringing up stories from the past. How she and Grandpa made Easter so special. Or the homemade gift wrap and matching refrigerator magnets she crafted each Christmas. I wanted to show her how much she mattered. How egocentric of me to think she needed to know this.
I am the oldest grandchild on both sides. Over the years, all four of my grandparents reminded me of this. As if by being born first, I have done something special. I only hope I’ve lived up to their expectations.
There was an incident years ago, perhaps the one time I did something heroic. It was around Christmas. A young man came into the department store where I worked with a credit card issued to a Mrs. McGregor.
His grandmother, he assured me. His purchase included some Guess overalls (trendy at the time), totaling over $300. Something didn’t add up, though he was loaded with shopping bags. My own grandparents would never lend me their credit cards, would never dream of spending so much for overalls. My grandfather wore pinstriped Key overalls from the tractor supply store.
So, I called the manager. As we waited, I kept the young man talking. He told me he worked at the nursing home across the street. Then the manager finally arrived and proceeded to bumble the whole thing. The would-be thief easily escaped. But I still had Mrs. McGregor’s card.
The next day, a police officer had me identify photos.
Turned out Mrs. McGregor lived in the nursing home where the man worked. She didn’t know her credit cards were missing. My information led to the arrest.
I never received a commendation from my workplace. My immediate supervisor met with me soon after to go over my sales quota, which (I wryly noted) fell short by the amount the guy had wanted to charge to the stolen credit card. But I knew I had done the right thing, whether anyone thanked me or not.
As the number of people requiring nursing home care grows, stealing from vulnerable elderly will likely increase. It’s not the corporations or government regulations that will take care of these people, but individuals. I hope as a country we are up to the task.
Back in what was once my grandparents’ yard, a neighbor looked out his window, wondering what I was doing there. I was trespassing. About to leave, I noticed a bird’s nest on the ground with a piece of green Easter grass entwined. I could only imagine it was from my own Easter basket years ago.
Being the oldest grandchild, I have known my grandparents the longest. I hope I have known them best. What the neighbors must have thought that day, I don’t know. I barely recognized myself: a strange middle-aged woman walking down the street carrying a bird’s nest, crying her eyes out.
And no soft-serve to cheer me up.
Gretchen Bergen is a freelance writer.
