One of my earliest and fondest memories of Grandma was the time I convinced my parents to allow me to spend the night at her house. I would have been 7 or 8 years old. This was at a time when Grandma taught 2nd grade at Centerville Elementary and she brought me along to her classroom the next morning. I assumed I’d just sit at her desk and doodle away until recess. But I knew the day wasn’t going to be only fun and games when she assigned me a desk, gave me a pencil and expected me to follow along with her class.

For as long as I remember, Grandma shared stories with me about how my grandfather, my uncle John and my own father had all earned degrees from the University of Utah. Even at this early age she made sure I understood the importance of a good education. This left such a strong impression with me that I knew early on that I would graduate from the U. I had no choice but to keep the family tradition alive.

Grandma worried about every possible detail while taking care of others before herself. I can picture my Grandpa sitting in his big Lay-Z-Boy chair in the basement watching All in the Family while Grandma, perched atop the stairs, would call for him to come upstairs for dinner. When Grandpa finally made it to the table grandma would say, “Hey Nordy what took you so long?” To this day, I think of Grandma each time I hear that show’s theme song. Like Edith Bunker, she appeared a bit frazzled, occasionally at a loss for words, yet she always pulled off a successful family gathering in the face of long odds.

During the warm Utah summers before I had my driver’s license, my father would drive me to the Ogden bus depot where I’d catch a bus to Bountiful. The bus would drop me off a mile or so from Grandma’s house from which I’d sprint the entire stretch so I could quickly get started mowing the lawn. One afternoon as I was finishing up, a neighbor approached grandpa and gave him the name of a young neighbor boy who cut lawns. Before grandpa could reply, grandma chimed in with, “Our grass just looks better when it’s been cut by our grandson”. That put an end to the discussion. Once the grass was clipped and bagged, I’d kick back in the shade off her back porch where I could shoot the breeze with my grandparents. These were some of the best times because I didn’t have to share the stage with anyone else. The occasion was made even more special when Grandma would retreat to her basement and bring back a bottle of Coca Cola for me to sip on, something that wasn’t allowed at home. I felt like a little rebel. My grandparents would take turns peppering me with questions: Grandpa wanted to talk sports while Grandma would interject questions about how my studies were coming along. She never missed an opportunity to talk about education.

Visiting grandma’s house was exciting primarily because it provided curious if sometimes questionable activities I wasn’t allowed to take part in at home. A few of these activities include using the outside clothes line as a fire pole, attempting to clear the prickly shrubs by jumping off the front porch, and double-daring my sisters to go into the downstairs laundry room without adult supervision. The test was to see if one of us could make it far enough into the laundry room to spot the wooden washboard that looked like something seen from Little House on the Prairie. But most of the time we’d chicken out and only make it as far as the snow blower before retreating to safer ground.

Grandma also had a way of warning us kids about the big green exercise machine that crouched downstairs. It was more electronic bull than exercise device and we couldn’t wait to see who could stay on it for the longest amount of time. The way in which Grandma warned us about it, made it that much more mysterious if also a bit dangerous. It was just too tempting to pass up. My sister Jana would volunteer to ride it first but only if I promised to keep it on the slowest setting. Once she was on, I’d crank the dial up as high as it would go and Jana would scream as she tried to keep from falling off. The fun would end when one of two things would happen: Grandma would hear the screams from upstairs and come running to unplug the thing or Jana would get tossed off the green bull and onto the little space heater that glowed bright orange.

As I moved into high school and became more involved in athletics, I could count on Grandma and Grandpa attending most games. I recall several games where just looking into the stands and seeing my grandma smile back at me would calm my nerves. Yet even when I didn’t perform well, she’d tell me how much she enjoyed the game and how well I played. The ability to see the good in any situation must be a requirement to becoming a Grandma.

Grandma was a very frugal person. I recall going to four different grocery stores with her one Saturday morning because each store had a type of fruit or vegetable on sale. It didn’t seem economical to travel across town to save 8 cents on a pound of seedless grapes but, to Grandma; it wasn’t just about the savings: it was a matter of principle.

Another time I arrived at grandma’s house and noticed a stack of postage stamps on her kitchen table. Each stamp had a small white backdrop and I asked grandma about this. She explained that occasionally the post office wouldn’t cancel the stamp and she was merely rescuing a number of perfectly good stamps by cutting them off the envelopes and then gluing them on to outbound letters.

And the family is still amazed that one year, Grandma was able to purchase her Thanksgiving dinner with the all the trimming at the same store she purchased her Thanksgiving outfit, a feat nobody thought possible until Grandma pulled it off.

Because I’ve lived outside of Utah for the better part of 13 years now, I’ve not has as many opportunities to visit with her. But last week after hearing of her deteriorating condition, I decided to drive my family down from Seattle to visit. She was able to speak and hold the hand of our three oldest children and lay next to Kai, our 2 month old baby boy. I consider it a mini-miracle that she had the strength and state of mind to do this the night before she passed away. I’m glad my family was able to share that time with her and I know she’s in a place where she’s no longer in pain.

When I think of Grandma Nordquist, I’ll remember our chats on the back porch, the Life Saver Candy books she gave me each Christmas and the warm smiles she gave me during all those games. But I know she’s in a better place now. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the tables were now turned when she was reunited her companion and it’s now Grandpa who says, “Hey Edith, what took you so long?”

Last week we decided to make a trip to Utah to see my family. My dad’s mother has been in a care center for a few months and her health had deteriorated to a point where we didn’t know if she’d be around for our planned visit in the spring.

We arrived in Utah early Thursday morning and went to the care center that afternoon to visit grandma. The doctors had recently put her on some medication to reduce her anxiety. It did that a little too well and made her sleep through our first visit. My father and I stopped by the next day and she was awake, but still a bit confused and groggy.

On Sunday we decided to stop by with our four young children. We were not sure this was the right decision to make given their high levels of energy don’t exactly mix with the docile nature of a care center. As we made our way through the snow into the hallway and past the large fish tank, we continually reminded our kids to be on their best behavior.

And they were on their best behavior as we visited with Grandma who was very weak but coherent. Each of our kids approached her as she laid peacefully in bed. Grandma reached out to hold each of their small hands. Luca, Lincoln and Anna all looked at her in amazement. She told each of them how happy she was to see them and how darling each of them looked. I don’t know if they recognized their grandma until she spoke as her face had lost much of its definition.

Picture: My mother comforting Grandma Nordquist

Unlike Kim, I’m not very comfortable in these situations. I’m not quite sure what to say and I don’t want to come across as if I understand what she is going through when I can’t possibly know what it’s like. My heart raced. Time slowed down. But I felt at peace as I sat next to my grandma’s bed and held her hand. Or what was left of her hand as rheumatoid arthritis had taken its toll on most of her body, but the damage was most evident in her knotted fingers. Her hand was warm as I held it. Over and over she said how proud she was of me and our children.

She’d never seen baby Kai before and so we placed him on the bed next to her. Grandma was so happy to see his chubby cheeks and listen to him coo and watch him wiggle his tiny hands and feet in the air. He looked like a potato bug that got tipped over. The sight of our 2 month old son giggling and laughing as he nestled alongside our 87 year old grandma is something I won’t forget.

Picture: Grandma reaching towards Kai

We didn’t stay long. Each of our kids came over to the bed to say goodbye. Kim and I each held her hand. We both had tears in our eyes. As I held her hand I knew it would be the last time I saw her alive. I am certain she knew it too.

We returned to my parents home and packed our bags for the return trip to Seattle the next morning. I thought of the many great memories I have of my Grandma and Grandpa Nordquist. They attended dozens of baseball, basketball and football games while I was in high school. No matter how I performed, they would hug me and tell me I played well. They made me feel important. That must be a requirement to become a grandparent.

We left Ogden around noon for the long drive back to Seattle. We drove north past Brigham City and then over into Idaho and on to Boise. We continued into Oregon passing Baker City and Pendleton before crossing into Washington State. Kim mentioned how many stars she could see due to the clear sky. As we drove through Snoqualmie Pass at three in the morning I mentioned to Kim how cool the snow and the lights looked as they glistened against the ski runs that were outlined by tall pine trees.  It was about this time that my Grandma Nordquist passed away.

She went to sleep and didn’t wake up. I can picture her being reunited with my Grandpa and how happy she must be. I’m glad I had the chance to spend some time with her during those last few hours.

Before I had my driver’s license or was interested in girls, I was expected to earn a little spending money by mowing lawns on the weekend. My dad and a few neighbors paid me five bucks a lawn, but the real money came from my grandparents who lived 30 miles south of Ogden, Utah in a city called Bountiful not far from Salt Lake City.

During the summer months my dad would drop me off at the main bus terminal, and I’d board a bus for the 90 minute ride at a cost of 75 cents each way. On the bus, I’d carry along a first generation Sony Walkman and a single a cassette from my favorite group at the time: Def Leppard. Songs from Pyromania had just started to hit MTV and I couldn’t get enough of them. I’m surprised I still have my hearing given how loud I’d crank those tunes through my headset.

The bus would drop me off about a mile from my grandparent’s house and I’d be so hyped up from “Rock of Ages” I’d sprint the entire stretch. My grandpa would be sitting on his porch waiting for me in a light blue chair that he probably purchased in the 1940’s. It was so retro that it was cool, but not very comfortable. He’d invite me inside where I’d start my work off with a Coke on the rocks. Growing up in a Mormon family, my parents didn’t see the need to stock our fridge full of Coke which made the event even more special. I felt like a rebel.

My grandpa had an old rotary mower that would cut a very narrow swath of grass at each pass. Luckily the lawn wasn’t very large and the only challenge was avoiding the many plums that would fall off the trees and clog the mower. My grandpa would watch me mow the front lawn from his chair, but would always move to the shady area off the back porch when I was ready to mow the backyard. When I’d finish up, I’d kick back on one of the old blue chairs that was cooled by the shade and chat with my grandpa. We’d talk about the latest sporting event such as the Utah Jazz, BYU or the Utes. He spoke so highly of the University of Utah that he had a great influence my choice to attend that school a few years later.

These Saturday afternoons were the only time I had the chance to chat with my grandpa alone. As I sat there listening to him talk I’d look at his face and see my father. His eyes and his facial expressions made me feel like I was listening to my father 20 years into the future. I loved listening to him tell me about many of the games where my father performed well. He could remember the intricate details of a certain pass for a touchdown or an important base hit. It was as if I had traveled back in time to watch my father play the sports I loved. Eventually my grandma would carefully walk down the stairs into the backyard to bring us more Coke and a cookie or crackers. We’d chat a little longer before I’d make my way over to my other grandparent’s home to mow their lawn. But before I’d leave, my grandpa would open his wallet and pull out a lot more money than I deserved. I’m sure he could have hired a neighbor kid to mow his lawn for a fraction of the cost. I guess grandson’s were on a different pay scale.

So I’m a little sad to think think that my grandparents house is going up for sale this week. My grandpa passed away a few years ago and my grandma was recently moved into a care facility to live out the rest of her life. There’s no need to keep the house that was the backdrop to so many great memories over the years. It’s a smaller brick home with a single attached carport in a friendly neighborhood. I doubt it will be on the market long.

I’m glad I had those years where Saturday’s were spent mowing a few lawns and sipping Cokes in the shade with my grandpa. The extra cash was great for a fourteen year old. But the time spent in the shade, sitting on the old chair listening to my grandpa is what I’ll remember most.