"Never change. Never change."

Betty and Harold Brown, with baby Caleb, last March.

This past Friday, my mom and I drove down to Ironton, Ohio, where my Grandma and Grandpa Brown live. Ironton is one of those dying blue-collar towns, so common in the Appalachians. It sits right on the Ohio River, at the point where Kentucky, Ohio, and West Virginia meet. The downtown looks unchanged since the 1950's, back when business was still thriving, except for the general air of dereliction. The storefronts are boarded up, the sidewalks empty of people, the roads potmarked, the factories abandoned.

We actually didn't spend much time in Ironton, but drove over the river to Ashland, Kentucky to visit my grandma at the hospital. Last week, at 90 years old, she underwent a partial knee replacement after a bad fall. The fact that the doctors approved surgery for a 90 year-old woman is a shining testament to her vitality and her spirited personality. She's feisty! She's the kind of lady who drives her 70-year-old friends to the doctor (speeding all the way) because they're too old and sick to manage it. Just two days after the surgery, though, she was able to walk around using only a walker for balance. She is still as hilarious and spirited as she ever was; while stretching her leg to keep her knee moving, she claimed that she was practicing kicking in case Harold got out of line!

Even at 90 and 92 years old, after 60 years of marriage, my grandparents are adorably still in love. They tease each other--even when Grandma has to shout because Grandpa's nearly deaf now. One lights up when the other walks in the room. Grandpa kissed Grandma goodbye as we left to go to dinner. At times, when Grandpa laughs or Grandma says something silly, you can see glimpses of the young people they were so long ago. It's hard to imagine Harold and Betty Brown independently--they have grown to compliment and complete one another perfectly.

As Mom and I chatted with my grandparents that afternoon, I kept on thinking about the last time I'd visited Grandma in the hospital. Five years ago, my grandma fell and broke one ankle and a bone in her other foot. Unable to walk as she healed, she stayed at a nursing home for a few weeks. Grandpa stayed by himself in the house they've shared since 1955. One weekend during this time, my dad and I drove down to visit her. I remember it as such a good day--Grandma was so obviously happy to have visitors, and Grandpa admitted that he was relieved we were there because he worried about her. She hated being confined to a chair. She hated being alone.

(Even then, she healed remarkably quickly. A few months later, we visited them and I remember her dancing around their laundry room. I tried to get her to stop--"Grandma!," I said, scandalized. "You'll fall again!" She just giggled and continued doing her little jig.)

That night after we got home, I wrote a journal entry about our visit--I was impressed by Grandma's resilience, amazed by the visible love my Grandpa had for her, grateful for the opportunity to know such wonderful people. Happy for the day spent with my dad during my last summer before college. I wondered about how much time we'd have left with them: "Five or so years, maybe more, maybe less." It's ironic that it was my dad, not my grandparents, with whom we only had five more years. You just never know.

As I reread my entry from that night I was impressed by the things I understood, even then. Before everything happened. Before my gut truly knew what grief could feel like. My heart ached at the idea of either Betty or Harold without the other, and I didn't know how any of us would cope with it. But, I said, "I guess that all we can do is cherish the time we do have left. I can love and relish their company, and maybe learn something about life from them. I suppose that's all we can hope for in life, until we are together again in eternity."

Hmm. Not bad advice, younger self.

---

"As we were leaving, I gave her a hug and as I pulled back, she held onto my hands. She looked at me, smiling and mouthed to me that she loved me. I told her I loved her too, but she kept on holding onto my hands. She said, 'Never change. Never change.'" 

 ---July 28, 2007