I often remind my children how lucky they were to have known all of their grandparents. And though their grandparents on my side of the family have passed, they still enjoy regular chats and catch-ups with their grandparents on their mother's side of the family.
All of my grandparents were born in the late 19th century. They survived World Wars, the Depression, and the Spanish Flu. Life was tough, and it was undoubtedly less prosperous.
I never knew my maternal grandparents. My mother's father died when she was only three years old, and her mother died on Victory in Europe day. The years of struggle took their toll on both of them.
My paternal grandmother was born in 1884, and she was 14 years older than my grandfather. She died from cancer at the age of 72, in 1956. Fourteen years later, my grandfather passed away at the same age, 72.
Of all of my grandparents, my paternal grandfather was the only grandparent I knew. I was only eight years old when he died, and even those memories are few and far between.
I remind my daughters to cherish their grandparents because I never had the fortune to know all of my grandparents. Knowing your roots is an essential part of life, and loving the moments with your grandparents is a big part of that.