COMMENTARY

He came bounding into my life some 34 years ago on this day.

As one interested in aviation, it was seemingly prophetic. On this December 17 date in 1903, two brothers from Dayton, Oh., successfully flew their Wright Flyer into a stiff North Carolina breeze at Kill Devil Hills, also known as Kittyhawk. And on the day he was born, Jeana Yeager and Dick Rutan were bouncing in the turbulence over the Indian Ocean on Voyager’s unrefueled, non-stop, world-girdling flight.

Thankfully, he was a robust, healthy young lad, and he stayed that way through all the challenges of youth: learning to walk, ride a bike, first day of school, soccer, Little League, learning to drive a car with a clutch, track and field, basketball, first harvest job, and so on.

After years of pledging his loyalty to being a Cougar, he switched tracks and attended Whitworth College and eventually Colorado State for his post-grad studies.

Now he’s a dad of two movin’-and-shakin’ young boys, and I’ve settled into the role of grandpa and it makes me think of my grandparents.

My dad’s folks lived in a small town on the Colorado plains, my grandpa passing away before I was born. Grandma was a retired nurse and did a lot of traveling. She had an odd number of Atlantic Ocean crossings, having been born in Russia—one of the Volga Germans. She could cook all those wonderful German dishes and I regret not standing by her to learn how.

My mom’s folks were also Colorado plains dwellers. She was a housewife and he was an educator, serving as teacher, principal, superintendent and more to a number of small eastern Colorado towns.

When my parents met one another at the University of Colorado, and later had the introductions of the in-laws-to-be, my dad’s mom eyed my mom’s mom and said: “Didn’t you have a baby in the Brush [Colo.] hospital in 1927?” Indeed, one grandmother had been the nurse of the other grandmother, unsuspecting that they’d be inlaws in the future.

Grandma lived in her Colorado home, converting a few rooms into an apartment to augment income. She watched her pennies and was generous to us.

Remembering her chiefly brings back warm thoughts of Christmas. There was excitement at anticipating her arrival. She’d flown Pan American’s Around the World tour, and was a veteran traveler, usually arriving on United’s flight into Pendleton. It was so fun to go and greet her off the airplane.

She’d set about cooking as our family was going in a dozen different directions with school activities, mom a-teaching and dad working to get the newspaper published each week.

Every morning she’d whip up some rivakuva, at least that’s the phonetic spelling of what she called coffee cake. She made egg noodles, maldodgers, kraut beroks, ebelskivers. We ate well when Grandma was visiting.

During her visits, she’d be invited to play bridge with the local bridge players, and with her sharp mind, she was a good partner.

All too soon, her Christmas visits were over, and we’d take her to Pendleton to catch the airplane.

And, all too soon, a number of years later, she caught the flyer to that house not made with hands.

We remember her fondly every Christmas when we enjoy some of the German food she introduced us to...and we’re reminded of what it takes to be a fantastic grandparent.