Every girl should have a grandpa

When I was a little girl, my grandparents' annual visit always excited inexpressible anticipation in me.

I would plot and plan and dream up all the ways we could possibly spend time together. I would look forward to seeing their 1980s gold station wagon pull up to our Victorian house--in the process of being remodeled--so much, that I would even lose focus at school in my first grade special smart kid group, which I loved.

I loved watching my mother scour the house so that every inch would be pleasing to her parents. I would follow her around the house, wondering which normal item we would have to put under a counter or in a drawer to make room for them to sleep and use a bathroom.

They usually slept on the olive-green pull-out couch in the living room. I loved the sound of it when my grandparents would ask me to help them pull it out, and I loved rubbing my chubby fingers across the red satiny underbelly, which remained the only evidence of the couch's dark red glory days. (I would imagine the couch in those days, looking all Victorian, like the house, and wondered who might have sat there. What parents rocked their children to sleep on it? What tea trays were perched on its broad arms? I never got very far with these imaginations, but even so, I would still endeavor to picture things beyond my experience.)

On Grandparent Arrival Day, as I am sure I had subconsciously dubbed it, I felt as though the queen were coming to visit. I felt no loss of relationship with Merl and Ginger Keefer, despite the four-hour distance from Sikeston, Missouri, to Nashville, Tennessee. I never lamented this in my moments of ecstasy in the anticipation of their arrivals; I simply embraced them for what they were, and generally tried to squeeze every last drop out of them.

I must not hide my eagerness for their gifts. Alas, I'm afraid I did look forward to those things they must surely bring--even if it were only a loaf of bread or a batch of Grandma's famous oatmeal cookies--if for nothing else than for their newness factor. I have always loved new things, and since I was getting both new people and new things, one can imagine why I anticipated these visits with such eagerness.

Close to the time of their arrival, after putting away all our toys and wiping down every dusty surface, my sister, Lydia, and I would hunker down in the floor just inside the front storm door, squatting or sitting on our ankles, excitement bursting out of us like rays of sunshine rushing past a drawn afternoon drape.

From this vantage point, we could best spot that gold wagon as soon as it turned onto Holly Street without getting in trouble for abandoning preparation chores. And even if we weren't finished with chores yet, as soon as that tell-tale gold flashed in the morning or late afternoon sun, we would let loose screeches of deep pleasure, leap up onto red feet tingling with the rush of renewed circulation, and beat down that glass door.

We would race to the end of the concrete sidewalk, flinging arms out in girlish shoves to get to the gate first, be the first to win Grandpa's "Give me some sugar!" or Grandma's "That's my girl!"

Lydia and I would each take the hand of a grandparent and lead them triumphantly back to our parents, expecting nothing less than shrieks of joy from Mama and kindly hugs from Daddy.

We would stand aside to allow the grown-ups their conversation, all the while impatiently rocking back and forth from one foot to another in great anticipation of their always tasteful gifts.

Sometimes Grandma would pull out a dress she had hand-sown for one of my dolls; other times she would withdraw a gigantic bag of the biggest oatmeal cookies I had ever seen and hand us each one, even though it wasn't yet snack or dinner time. (I loved her dearly for this!)

One memory I can never forget is the smell of Grandpa's Old Spice cologne that he kept in his yellow leather toiletry bag. Every time I visited the family bathroom, I would stand close to that bag and just breathe in. Strength, dignity, and the vast mystery of who my grandpa was emanated from that bag. I can never smell Old Spice and not jump back 18 years to those bathroom moments.

I was 21 when Grandpa died of a rare bone cancer. He was 80 years old.

I was living abroad in Guadalajara, Mexico, learning Spanish. Since I had already purchased two plane tickets, I did not have enough money to return home for the funeral.

For the last three and half years, my grandpa has never seemed gone; only four hours away in a gold station wagon--even though they gave that wagon to Mama when they bought a new car when I was about 10, and even though I have visited Sikeston several times since his death.

I still picture that yellow leather toiletry case on the back of my toilet, because it sat there once when they visited when I was in high school. I can still conjure that spicy smell if I stand there too long.