Life with Grandma and Grandpa

Life with Grandma and Grandpa

David C. Russell

My name is Sergei. Perhaps my parents had high hopes as my name is shared with historic figures from the fields of Russian arts, athletics, and politics, respectively. Our last name was

Bokowski. One side of my family came to America by boat from Belarus in the early 1930s. The other side moved from French speaking Canada before WWI.

I have fond memories of my Canadian grandparents that stretch through my formative years. A handful of these are evoked by recalling mealtimes as we were seated at a round table. The aromas of homemade bread, homemade chicken soup, warm mashed potatoes, orange juice containing bits of chopped orange, conversation altogether induce a sense of comfort, calm, and contentment.

The only time recalled where someone raised their voice occurred one summer morning. As youngsters, my brother and I spent one week during a summer with our grandparents. As youngsters, we enjoyed jumping on the bed or a friend’s trampoline. The rise and fall motions were invigorating! As we indulged ourselves in an upstairs bedroom at our grandparent’s – a voice from down below questioned, “What the hell’s going on up there?”

I said, “Nothing.” Jumping immediately ceased.

Moreover, I surmised that my grandparents seldom raise their voice, yelled at grandchildren or at each other. To be sure, they had the sporadic disagreement, tiff, but these are short-lived by recall.

At age ten, on a wintery day that was snowy, chilly, a bit blustery, I was at my grandparent’s home with my immediate family. I was to be part of a piano recital in their community that evening.

“Sergei,” grandpa began, “Play “Sing Along Silvery Moon” for me.”

“You should ask him to play the recital piece, Minuet by Bach,” Mom said.

“There’ll be time for that. Or, we’ll hear him play that tonight,” Grandpa said.

“He has to play it, practice it, be competent with it,” Mom argued.

“I’m the head of this home and he will either choose to play my request or not.”

“So, will you play my song? We May have some short-cake if you do,” Grandpa said.

I played Grandpa’s seeming favorite song for the countless time, same key, same tempo, same expression. We did have the dessert together once completed.

To appease mom, I did practice the Bach Minuet three times after finishing dessert. It’s a short piece about two minutes in length.

All argument was suspended thereafter. I realized something in that moment, I could please people with very different wishes. It requires a bit of thinking and applied ingenuity.

That evening the recital was at a small community church in a neighboring town. Interior décor was rather basic, simple, befitting what some ascribe a country church. Recital featured a dozen performers between the ages of six and sixteen. Warm applause and a short article later indicated all had gone well. Attendance was light due to the weather continuing to raise a fuss as it were.

The next week, someone mentioned my performance in the town’s weekly newspaper.

“Sergei Bokowski, age ten, may one day be the next Sergei Prokofiev and or Rachmaninoff at the piano keyboard. He shows the concentration, interpretation, straight posture of a serious pianist that the above mentioned are alleged to have displayed.”

I got to choose dinner the next evening, and we dined at a restaurant near the shore of Lake Huron known for its lake perch, all one could eat!

One other meal with my grandparents occurred a bit later in my youth. Grandpa had sliced the loaf of bread made by Grandma just hours before.

“Let me show you something,” he said. Knife in hand, he asked “Sergei, hand the salt over to me,” he urged. The bread was already buttered.

“Oh Dad, what are you doing?” Grandma asked. When sentences began with, Oh Dad, she was expressing displeasure at his action.

“Sergei, try this. You could become a fan of bread salted and buttered,” he said handing me one slice.

To this day, I occasionally indulge in having a slice of salted buttered bread. It enhances the experience and even provides a hint of comfort.

I had an aunt, uncle, and cousins who lived about one-quarter mile from my grandparents. He was a farmer who raised hay, oats, wheat, corn, and had a family garden on their property. Summer days included the entire family helping to work the farm. Working the farm involved picking produce, piling bails of hay in the barn, fixing a farm implement, cleaning up after a major storm, on and on.

“Sergei, want to drive the tractor today?” my uncle asked.

“Sure,” I said with a tone of excitement!

“Grab the wheel and lift yourself up on the seat,” my uncle advised.

Seated behind me, he showed me the shift, where the brake and gas pedal were underneath, and started the tractor.

“Can you make this go fast?” I asked.

“Not today. We’re going to bail hay and the wagon is attached with the bailer,” he said.

However, he did steer while I was given the task to operate the gas pedal and or brake when needed. A couple hours out in the open sunshine with gentle breeze had felt like ten minutes after all said and done.

A few years later, things came to a head when my uncle told Grandpa that he could no longer drive the tractor. Grandpa’s eyesight was in decline as was his memory. He was approaching age eighty. I only heard about the incident secondhand. By that time, I was newly enrolled in college, and occupied with other things beside aging grandparents or much else familial.

Grandpa passed away four years later, but Grandma remained in their home for a few years longer until she passed. Though different without Grandpa being present, the summer reunion and or picnic, and the holiday indoor get-together still occurred because it was “family.”

I did receive the sporadic letter from Grandma. She was ready to join Grandpa anytime God saw fit to lead her over into the next realm. Her faith was strong though, and she would surmise life had been good, long enough, and now she was in waiting mode. Together, Grandma and Grandpa enjoyed over five decades with one another. Family nearby and distant were important to them over the years they shared.

End