Flashbacks

Every two weeks, on a Saturday, I go to visit two of my most favorite people in the world: My grandparents. We call them Oma and Opa, because my Oma is from Germany. (My Opa is not German, he is actually Puerto Rican, but for whatever reason they chose the German words.) I practically lived with them half the time, and my parents the other. The three of us share such a special and beautiful bond, many, and I mean many of my best childhood memories involve them.

This Saturday I went for my bi-weekly visit, and when I arrived my Oma greeted me with a big hug, as always. And as always, my 92 year-old-still-a-handsome-devil (his words), Opa, is offering his "Hello dear!" from the top of the loft where he has a couple of computers set up.... He loves his computers. In fact, he just bought my Oma a new one with Vista, which created quite the dilemma between communication necessary for the printer. Opa has been on a mission for several visits, and apparently today, the solution presented itself.

Opa was cheerful, and said that we would be having coffee outside. I actually had a glass of Merlot, my Oma started with coffee but then had Opa go in and get her some Zinfandel. Opa was the only one with coffee. (Might I add as I was leaving an hour later, he was in the fridge looking for some wine for himself? They are the reason I love the liquid!)

Anyway, while we were enjoying the nice weather, Opa decided to give us a rerun of one of his favorite stories from the past. He always exclaims excitedly with his heavy Puerto Rican accent, "I had the most beautiful childhood," and then goes on to tell a story that we most likely have heard before. He is so excited, and on this day exceptionally proud, of his past. At first, I felt the usually sting of pain when I know this will be a repeat, although greatly animated for my amusement. But then, I realized, as I often do during times exactly like this, that I should be soaking this up, cherishing this. When I was a little girl we did not have conversations like this, and all too often children do not get the opportunity to talk with their grandparents in this way. He is my blood, and I need to hear these stories. I need to lock these moments in and store them for use on days I am feeling gloomy, or heaven forbid, when he can no longer tell them.

Of course, the parody ensues, as my Oma and I exchange secret looks between each other, and are able to communicate the hysteria of the situation. It really is a sight: Opa, talking wildly with the same fire in his eyes today as he must have had all those years ago; Oma, telling him to lower his voice because the whole neighborhood does not need to know how beautiful his life has been; and me, dually soaking it up for sentimental storage and enjoying the show!

My grandparents both lived amazing lives, and I find it difficult to initiate a conversation about their past without them bringing it up themselves. I very rarely ask questions, and only when I truly must know the answer. Opa was an American soldier who served a little during WWII, had two deployments to Vietnam, and is also 22 years older than my Opa; and my Oma, who grew up in Germany immediately after the horror of WWII, while the trauma still staining and stinging the country. I am so very interested in hearing every detail, from beginning to end, so that I can record it permanently. But I also feel that I have a boundary, one that is set up in order to protect me from some very sad stories.

I always leave their house feeling bittersweet. I absolutely adore them, and I feel elated just being with them, reminiscing, being their little girl again. Then, the thought that I am no longer that little comes to mind, and I feel sad, because that thought spirals into the thought that Oma and Opa are getting older with me, and there may come a day I won't hear the rerun stories, or the new ones.