Warren and Erma

Both of my dad’s parents would’ve celebrated their birthdays this spring. Their anniversary was also in March, so Grandpa and Grandma Banzet have been on my mind a lot lately. I have only a few memories of Grandma because she passed away from cancer when I was in the third grade. She wore flip flops no matter the season. It didn’t matter how cold it was, I can close my eyes and see her bare toes in cheap plastic flip flops. She perspired heavily on her upper lip and carried a paper towel with her everywhere she went to dab at the sweat. Grandma drove a faded blue 1980s model Chevrolet sedan that was always parked right outside the front door of the house at the end of the sidewalk. When my mother gave birth to my sister, dad was baling hay in a field a couple of miles from Grandpa and Grandma’s house. Mom called Grandma’s landline to tell her she was in labor, and I’m told the news sent Grandma into emergency mode. Dad says from atop his tractor, he watched Grandma jump his hay windrows in that blue boat of a car. The way he describes it, Grandma caught some real air as she raced through the hay field to tell my father, “it’s time.”

Grandma battled cancer for several years as it spread throughout her body. She and Grandpa were lucky enough to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary before she became extremely ill. She was sick the day of their reception, but her hair was dyed and fixed, and she wore a beautiful navy dress with a scalloped white bib overlay around the neck (it was the 90s). The dress looked beautiful on her in their formal anniversary portrait.

At some of the peak times of her illness, she was hospitalized in Wichita, which is a good three hours from my childhood home. Dad drove to visit her many evenings after working his full-time job and making sure all the animals were fed. She and dad had a pretty good relationship. She made amazing fried chicken, noodles from scratch and super tart, but oh so good rhubarb pie. No wonder Dad’s favorite meal is fried chicken. And, oh yeah— her eyebrows. They were a perfect shape, and with the raise of a brow she could instantly convey her surprise or concern. To appreciate how fabulous they were, you would have to meet my niece. There’s no denying how my niece’s warm, brown eyes are framed with Grandma’s exquisite high brows.

Grandpa Banzet was the baby of seven siblings and grew up on the farm where my parents now live. He had this stunning white wavy hair up until the day he died. I’d like to think that’s where my dad got his curly hair and why mine has such a mind of its own today. Grandpa served in World War II, worked construction, operated a farm and ranch, raised chickens and told really good stories of his childhood, which usually involved riding horses. Every summer on his old (and I mean old) open air John Deere tractor, he chugged along raking hay ahead of my dad with the tractor and baler.

In the nursing home in Grandpa’s later years, there were several framed photos of his favorite horses—a paint mare and its foal, his best gelding and others. That’s what connected Grandpa and me. He knew horses and I was crazy about them. When I was in school one day, he drove the couple miles to our house to check on my very pregnant mare and discovered by her side a new black filly with a white star on her forehead. He was so excited to tell me about my new baby horse when I arrived home later that afternoon. His whole body shook when he laughed, and he loved to reminisce about riding horses, harvesting crops and taking care of livestock. I’m so mad at myself for not recording all those conversations he had with us about the old days. His favorite song was “He stopped loving her today” by George Jones, and he fixed himself sausage or bacon and eggs every morning for breakfast. He lived the bachelor life for a good two decades after Grandma passed away. I can’t imagine how lonely he must’ve been during all those quiet afternoons in his small farmhouse after she died. He lived to be 98 years old. I was sure he was going to make it to 100. Many of his sisters lived past the century mark.

My final summer before college graduation, I got a wild hair and decided to accept an internship at Atlanta Motor Speedway. It was the first time I’d ever been away from home by myself, and my parents were pretty worried about my summer in the South. Sure, I was scared to be on my own, but I couldn’t wait for the new experience of a cool summer job, living with a host family and going on an adventure. My dad told me months after I returned home that the night before I left for Georgia, when my dad made his nightly trek to Grandpa’s to check on him, dad had walked into the house to find Grandpa sitting at his kitchen table, crying, saying “Please don’t let her go.” Grandparents worry a lot. I had a wonderful summer in Georgia, but the image of my grandpa sitting at his rickety kitchen table crying because of me will haunt me for the rest of my life.

When my sister was born and my parents were at the hospital, I’m told I stayed overnight with Grandpa and Grandma Banzet. I had just turned three. Over the years, Grandpa would tell me again and again how the night I stayed with them, it stormed. Somewhere in between several claps of thunder, I ran into their room and said, “Grandpa, will you stay with me, I’m scared.” I wonder if that’s why I repeatedly saw Grandpa Banzet in my dreams when I was pregnant; one night, I was walking with him out in the barnyard. Another night, we were standing in the front yard, looking up at the stars. I saw his face in many dreams while awaiting the arrival of my son. My husband said it was because Grandpa knew I was scared to have a baby in a global pandemic. He was there in my dreams to comfort me, to remind me I was safe from the storm.

I don’t think a lot of people know that Grandpa and Grandma secretly eloped at age 18. They knew that marriage announcements were posted in the local paper, so to prevent their parents from discovering their nuptials, they drove to a neighboring county to get hitched. After their courthouse union that day, they both returned to their separate homes where they still lived with their parents. News of their marriage did not circulate in the area until about a month later. I never knew that about Warren and Erma until my 20s when Grandpa randomly told me the tale one afternoon. I asked why the secret. He said they did it because they knew their parents would say no and they “just wanted to get married.”

This is why I write. I want my son to read some day what I remember now. I only wish I’d written down more when Grandpa was alive or at least carried a tape recorder with me when I visited him. I know I’ll see them both again someday. In the meantime, I miss Grandpa and Grandma Banzet. There’s always a story wrapped up in the elders of childhood, and I wish I knew more of their story. I guess that’s why I’ve got a photo of my horse framed on my office wall and why when sweat collects on my top lip, I reach for a paper towel. The little things become the big things after they’re gone.