My younger brother, Matthew, and I are watching a bumble bee scavenge my grandparents' garden for nectar, first checking the dead petunias, then the withered roses. The bee has thick stripes and an intimidating, toxin-dripping stinger.
"Be careful," I whisper, "it's poisonous."
The bee shifts, stretches his wings, twitches his antennae. Takeoff.
And with speed and courage I didn't know I possessed at the age of seven, I trap the bee in a baby food jar.
"Hurry, Matthew! Put the lid on before it kills me!"
My curly-headed brother rushes over with do-or-die purpose, and twists on the small lid.
Phase one of our plan is successfully completed.
My brother and I had spent the night with our grandparents the previous evening, intending to climb trees and chase squirrels the next day. To our surprise, Grandma woke us up the next morning with a hard knock on the door, "This is your first and last wake up call."
"I should be so lucky," I thought.
Two hours later, another hard knock on the door.
"Time to get up!" She'd sent Grandpa this time.
Like an apprehensive turtle, I peek my head out of the covers, just enough to read the digital clock on the nightstand. Ten o'clock.
Reluctantly, I throw back the covers and shake my brother awake.
"C'mon, Matthew ..." He might as well be dead, judging by his lack of movement.
With kingly expectations, we wander into the kitchen, where there are bowls caked with batter, a half-empty bottle of syrup, dirty plates and the lingering smell of pancakes. The Ghosts of Breakfast Past.
"There's cereal in the cabinet," Grandpa says above his newspaper.
"No pancakes left?" my brother asks.
"We tried to wake you two up," Grandma answers, nonchalantly washing a spatula.
Half an hour later and sated by sugar-free, colorless cereal, the box of which, by the way, didn't even have a maze or word search on the back, my brother and I are relegated to tree-trimming in the backyard.
This Saturday, the sun is relentless. Matthew and I are as drenched as the kids across the street, except they're running through a sprinkler and playing with hoses, while the two of us wield unreasonably large scissors and hack at bushes. Flies and gnats buzz around our ears and fly into our noses. This child-labor reality is so very different from the images my parents used to convince us to stay the night.
Too thirsty to work another moment, we go inside and each take a Coke from the refrigerator.
"You can have that if you drink a glass of water first," Grandma says, appearing out of nowhere.
And that was the straw that broke the camel's back.
I shake the imprisoned bee. Shake it hard. Shake it until the bee is unconscious or dead, we don't care which.
"Ready?" I ask.
While Grams and Gramps pull weeds in the front yard, we sneak up to their bedroom on the second floor and gently push open the door. We're in unchartered waters. I confidently open the closet door, unscrew the lid from our jar, and dump the bee into the toe of a high-heeled shoe. One of the shoes Grandma will undoubtedly wear to church the next morning.
Matthew and I imagine her limping in to praise the Lord. High-five!
Although I may not have always liked them, I can at least appreciate my grandparents' quirks now. Each December I unwrap their generously-given, if not predictable Christmas presents: a horse calendar for the coming year (notwithstanding my lack of equestrian interest), bed sheets (festive, if nothing else) and something on a rope (for example: soap, rocks and, my personal favorite, toe-nail clippers).
I also love reading their e-mails, which usually include their daily plans:
"We are both fine. We do plan on going shopping today for a few groceries. Grandpa wants a new hat since we can't find his since the fire. We also like the tilapia fish at Wal-Mart...it's frozen individually and easy to fix."
Every family has its quirks. My family has two - my grandparents, and as frustrating as family can be, without them, life wouldn't be as interesting. They team-tell stories about the years they spent as Haitian missionaries, and are always inspired to gather for "family, fun, fellowship and food." At these gatherings, they explain the dinner they've prepared, which is usually a smorgasbord of edible culture. They are passionate, motivated people who have lived and worked hard, and they continue to support me and the rest of my family unconditionally. For that, I love them.
But loving your family so much also comes with the knowledge that, like taking a nap after Thanksgiving dinner, the best part about visiting is knowing you get to leave afterward.
Write to JD at jdmitchell@bsu.edu
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