As a young child, in one breath, I called them, “Grandma-and-Grandpa-Up-North.” As if, that was their name. In a sense, it was their unofficial, not so clever, nickname. In many ways, they were synonymous and I couldn’t speak of one without speaking of the other. I couldn’t think of them, without thinking of life “Up North” in Northern Michigan. In all of my memories, they were side-by-side, hand-in-hand.
Grandpa retired from a GM Factory in Pontiac and settled in Indian River, Michigan to enjoy the Great Outdoors. He fished, hunted, explored, observed, and appreciated all nature had to offer. Browsing through pictures of him post-retirement, he wore the biggest grin. Light was beaming from his face in every single shot; whether it was from pulling a huge fish out of the water or standing with anticipation in his hunting gear. The only time I saw that same twinkle and unbridled happiness was when he glanced at Grandma or he saw us grandkids.
After a terrible car accident in the mid 1990s, my once outdoorsy Grandpa rarely left the comfort of his home. He was restricted by exhaustion, pain medication, and unreliable breathing. His outside interaction became solely visits to his doctor or trips to the grocery store. His trips had to be short and purposeful. The requirements included clean air, a comfortable place to rest frequently, and eventually an oxygen tank. He was in constant pain and suffered from collapsed lungs. Doctors tried so many reconstructive surgeries over the course of 20-years, but his diagnosis was ultimately hopeless.
As soon as Grandpa became housebound, Grandma too, became trapped indoors. It was too difficult for him to travel and too difficult for her to leave him. Luckily, shortly after retirement and prior to the accident, they took off on a road trip. Side-by-side, hand-in-hand they travelled through the southern states by RV. It was a lifelong shared dream of theirs and I only wish they took more Polaroids.
For a few years after the accident, we could still take short walks with Grandpa through the woods on their property. However, Grandpa could no longer live the life he loved, which often consisted of camping for weeks on great hunting and fishing adventures. His retirement dreams were cut too short. Don’t worry though, because with every tragedy, love saves us.
My Grandma and Grandpa managed to keep their love alive while inside their retirement home, surrounded by trees on Old School Road. I will never forget the excitement of seeing their road sign and then pulling into their driveway. They established a safe, happy, creative space for us to be as free as the wild animals that came roaming through their yard. Similarly, the animals came because they felt safe and were given delicious treats.
Growing up, we did not take typical family vacations. Instead, we packed our bags for this safe haven. Honestly, looking back, I preferred it that way. We spent most school breaks and holidays there. Yet, each time it felt special. Summers were spent: gardening, picking berries, learning how to paint, exploring their property, observing birds and deer, and swimming in Mullett Lake. Winters were spent: building snowmen, orchestrating snowball fights, baking cookies, slowly walking through the winter wonderland of carefully decorated Christmas Villages, and staring at the beautifully lit Christmas tree. By day, we set off on family adventures. By night, the entire family bonded over laughter during the card game, Pass the Ace or sprawled out like cats all over the living room floor on ice cream and movie night! Time spent with them was filled with family, love, and comfort. I can still picture Grandma and Grandpa, watching us load into the car to leave. They became teary-eyed with each goodbye. Standing there, side-by-side, hand-in-hand, holding each other up. As much as I lived for visits Up North, they did too.
Maybe being stuck inside their home developed a new kind of love and dependency for one another. Grandpa maintained a small garden; Grandma cooked the delicious Midwestern cuisine. She painted landscapes; he wood worked. She dished out ice cream, and…let’s be honest, they both ate it. She yelled at him; he hollered louder. She walked passed him; he grabbed her passionately. Even at their angriest, they never went to sleep mad at one another. Their secret to 60 years of marriage was to always say I love you and give a goodnight kiss.
Their love for nature was unparallelled, which I’m forever grateful they passed down to me. As an anniversary gift to my Grandpa, Grandma painted a beautiful Bob Ross-esque Fall painting of ducks flying across a pond in the middle of the woods. It hung on their living room wall and I can still remember every detail. You see, it wasn’t the perfection of the painting that everyone loved, but rather the slightest imperfection. Something at first glance, would be missed by most. She unwittingly painted the ducks feet on backwards. Grandpa took every opportunity to tease her about it. However, this painting embodied what we all loved, a reminder of their love and who she was. Grandma was thoughtful, talented and nurturing while still being endlessly goofy, playful and carefree.
By the time we saw the signs, Alzheimers already had its strong grip on her life. Forgetful and flakey had always been part of her charm. Spouting random stories from the past and missing birthdays or mismanaging the checkbook. As far back as I can remember, this is how she was and we brushed it off until she began mishandling Grandpa’s medication. This was the first of many wake up calls. Grandpa was forced to watch as the love of his life slowly slipped away. He fought tirelessly for her to stay in their home for as long as possible. Towards the end, for her safety, she was moved to a nursing home.
During her final stay, my stubborn, demanding Grandpa got himself checked-in so he wasn’t too far away. At night, the nurses found their beds pushed together and there they laid, side-by-side, hand-in-hand. The night before she passed away, on the Fourth of July, he fondly spoke of how much she loved watching the fireworks. If this were a movie, he would have heroically snuck her out and she would die peacefully in his arms watching the fireworks. She passed away on July 5, 2015. Of course, to keep myself from crying, I still picture her Up North, rummaging through the woods to find creative ways of making art from her findings. I’ll never forget walking through the woods with our baskets, collecting small discoveries for our next art project. She always had a plan for our findings. The acorn could be a tiny hat. The pine cones could be tree bark. The leaves could be tops of trees. The moss could be grass. Her appreciation for every detail and creative imagination was inspirational. She not only taught me how to create art, she taught me how to bring it to life.
Three weeks later on July 27, 2015, my Grandpa would pass away in their home on Old School Road. Before he died, as if he sensed her nearby, he requested to be all cleaned up. He needed to be clean shaven using Grandma’s favorite smelling cologne and aftershave; I am lucky enough to have a bottle to sniff when I’m feeling nostalgic. Afterwards, he proudly announced that he was on his way to see his love, Bev. And he did just that. They left the world together, but are forever emblazoned in the hearts and memories of many. Especially, in mine; sitting side-by-side, hand-in-hand, Up North.
If I'm Gone Tomorrow 