I barely knew my grandparents growing up.  Both my parents grew up in the southeastern corner of Colorado, where my father’s parents remained until they died.  My mother’s parents only lived about an hour and a half away from the first house I grew up in, and while we visited every three or four months there just wasn’t a great connection for me.  I was very young at the time, quite a bit younger than my two brothers.

I have no substantial memories of my grandmothers.  I did visit Lamar, my dad’s home town, during Thanksgiving 1986.  All I remember about my dad’s mom is that she was there.  This is actually the only memory I have at all about her.

It’s largely the same story about my mom’s mom – even though I saw her much more often, all I can recall is that she was there.

My dad’s dad did visit us twice in California, once when I was maybe eight years old, and again about ten years later, after my parents had divorced and my dad had remarried.  This is the only significant thing I can remember about my dad’s dad: There’s a picture – I am not in it though I was present for the taking – of four generations of Harbert men: My grandfather, my father, my brother, and my brother’s infant son.  It’s the only time in Harbert history that four generations have been together.

If you would, please close your eyes for a moment and imagine the awe this experience fills me with to this day, twenty-five years later.

I have two distinct memories of my mom’s dad, and one of the memories isn’t even mine, it belongs to my oldest brother.

My own memory is pretty insignificant.  We were having dinner one night at my mother’s parents’ house.  I reached for the salt and my grandfather said, “Careful, it flows pretty easy.”  I tipped the salt shaker over my food and, sure enough, way more salt than I wanted came out of the shaker lid.  To this day, every time I shake a shaker of salt I remember my grandfather’s words.

My brother’s memory:  My mom’s mom had died, and my grandfather was living alone.  My oldest brother went over to visit one day.  Grandpa wanted to mow the lawn, so he got out the mower and got started.  After a short while, my brother went outside and tried to take over the chore from my grandfather.  Grandpa was having none of it and wanted to finish.  My brother insisted, Grandpa pushed back… Rinse, repeat, until my grandfather finally threw up his hands and yelled, “Fine! Fuck it!” and stormed back inside the house.

Understand, my grandfather rarely cussed, and he never, ever used the F word.

Here was a man who wanted to be feel useful, trying to do something normal after the death of his wife. I wasn’t there that day, but dammit I wish I had been.

And that sums up how I feel about my grandparents – Even though I was mostly too young to help or know what to do or even appreciate who and what they were, I wish I’d been there.