I can’t say I ever thought of them decorating, let alone decorating together. The thought of them having that conversation seems ridiculous. Maybe he said “Elsie, I’m going to put a giant rock at the end of the driveway.” And maybe she said, “mmm-hmmm,” with a slight turn of the head while watching the Hortons on Days of Our Lives. And maybe when she drove by the first time she wondered, “What’s that rock doing here?” while eating the last of her toasted marshmallows out of the Jerry’s Jack and Jill bag. 

They must have had conversations alone. But of course that would have been impossible to see. There were too many of us. With nine children, 27 grandchildren and growing, was there time to talk about the rhubarb? Maybe she said, “I’ll make a pie later.” And maybe he puffed an, “mmm-hmm,” through the stem of his pipe. And maybe he asked about dessert the next evening, as she rolled her eyes in the scent of the rhubarb that wafted through the kitchen.

Maybe it’s silly to imagine now, but I like thinking of them as people, not just as grandparents. It’s hard when you’re in the middle of it — standing on a rock, or eating a pie, but they were people. People who loved and laughed and worried and cried and wondered and hoped. People who got tired and excited. People who wrote down the price of grain and checked the weather report and went to the doctor. At the end of the day, people who called each other by name, and not by title. 

We can’t know everything about everyone, even the ones we love the most. But we can love them still. Maybe even more. Knowing we all have these lives filled with things we’ll never see. Reasons why we do the things we do. Live the way we live. 

If we can allow people to be people. See them somewhere between the rock and the rhubarb. And just love them…