I’ve other memories: races with my cousins in the basement armed with siren guns and on tricycles, warm summer afternoons on the front porch, the walk to the ice cream shop down the street, playing Star Trek in their backyard, and so much more. But as an adult, and even when I was young, the thing I treasure most is their stories.
My grandparents tell riveting stories. At least, they’re riveting to me. They grew up in the Great Depression and survived World War II and all the challenges and changes of the modern and post modern eras, but it isn’t just this that fascinates me. It’s my granddad’s stories of dusting carrots and tomatoes from the garden off on his jeans, sprinkling them with a handful of salt, and eating them fresh. It’s my grandmother telling about how they grew potatoes during the Depression and ran out just about the time the new crop came in.
On our visits as I grew up, at my grandparents’ knees through their stories, I learned to treasure our family and our heritage. My granddad taught me a fierce pride for my Scottish ancestors and our clan, MacNaughton. My grandmother taught me a quiet way to appreciate life. Whether they meant to impart these lessons, I don’t know, but I will always hold them dear to my heart.