T E X A R K A N A M A G A Z I N E
IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK COLUMN BY L IZ FL IPPO
Coffee Pots, Baby Gates… and Grandparents
photo by Matt Cornelius
Y ou know those coffee pots that have a timer you can set the night before? We have one and it brings me such joy. I make the coffee each night before I go to bed and set a timer for it to brew at 6:30 every morning. It’s as if I have a little gift greeting me each morning, smelling lovely in its carafe fullness, saying, “Good morning, Liz. I hope you slept well. Here, I made this for you. Pour yourself a cup and let’s do this thing.” I don’t realize how much I love it until it’s broken, or I fail to set the timer and wake up to an empty pot. I know, I know… first world problems. Something else I take for granted is a good night’s sleep. All three of our children have slept through the night since they were eight weeks old and all it took was the first few minutes of The Brothers figuring out how to crawl out of their cribs to change my perspective. I was ready to trade all our money for a good night’s sleep not spent on the floor of their bedroom, making sure two two-year-olds weren’t roaming the house while the rest of us slept. But there is one blessing in our lives we will never, ever, EVER take for granted… grandparents! My husband and I were lucky to grow up close to at least one set of our grandparents, and unbeknownst to us, we learned the
treasure it is for our children to be raised close to theirs. We were both raised with strong, southern grandfathers and with graceful and humble (but possibly even stronger) grandmothers. My maternal grandfather was born with a heart condition and passed away when Momma was 19 years old. He is always my answer to the common question, “If you could meet anyone past or present, who would it be?” I hear my mom is very much like her daddy was, so I can only imagine the party we’d have together. My fraternal grandfather, Papa, retired from a lifelong career in insurance and was the boss of all bosses. What he said went, no matter what. There was no doubt he loved his wife, my Nana, and his family, but he certainly had the respect he deserved. From the time I was a child, I remember Papa slipping rolled up money in my pockets and when I would try to return it or give thanks, he would wink at me with his dimpled smile and act as if nothing happened. My husband’s maternal grandfather, Pawpaw, was much the same. Pawpaw was the funeral director in their small hometown, and he deserves credit for my husband’s charming sense of humor, preference for freshly ironed clothes and complete dedication to his family. Our grandfathers’ presence alone demanded a well-earned respect, but they were God-fearing
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