On my right forearm is a large tattoo of an empty hourglass; taken from the front cover of my Opa’s book The Empty Hourglass, written a few years before his death. His book was a pivotal guiding force in my life, helping me to better understand myself as a Plaat, human being and man.
On his right side was a strong woman who faithfully loved, supported and raised their family – which included my Dad. For most of my childhood, ‘Oma en Opa’ were far more than my grandparents; they were some of my favorite people and I loved them dearly.
Some of my fondest childhood memories were spent in their home at 4675 West Britton Road, in Burbank, OH. It was a beautiful home in Amish country, with a wooded lot that seemed to span infinitely. It was there that Opa would take us grandchildren on hikes in the forest.
I’ll never forget the way that home felt. From the moment we pulled in on the crunchy driveway, to the sound and smell of the garage as we walked inside, it felt like a warm, safe home. Hidden away from the noise of city life and sharing the roads with the Amish in their buggies, that home truly was a gem.
As a child, I’d carefully explore Opa’s ‘office’ which contained his large drafting table/art desk, supplies for his wood burning art, and a small fleet of hand-assembled/painted ‘birds’ – planes that he had flown duriing WWII. There was a quiet calm of order, creativity and skill contained within that room which presented itself as soon as you walked inside.
In the downstairs den stood a cast-iron fireplace, built-in wall of bookshelves filled edge-to-edge with a large collection of books that I never read. Parked in the corner was a small TV, where us grandchildren would eagerly gather for family movie nights. Whenever it was ‘my turn’ I’d always choose The Black Stallion, and we watched it several times over.
Now that I’m an adult, I can truly appreciate the gem of a home that place was. Beyond the walls of the home, I can also appreciate the time, love and care that both Oma en Opa provided their grandchildren.
Inside the home was a large collection of antique dishes from Holland – most of which were painted delt blue – as well as intricate silver spoons and rustic mementos from Holland, like a pair of wooden ice skates that hung on the wall.
All that’s left of that home are the memories in my mind, just as I remember my time with Oma en Opa.
Opa died about a month after I moved into a fraternity house at OSU. November, 2005. I was less than two months into life as an 18 year-old, and it hit me like a load of bricks. I won’t ever forget the moment where I got the news.
I ran up the third-story stairway in the large ‘frat house’ and curled up into a ball in a tiny stairwell, weeping bitterly. I didn’t want anybody to see me cry – yet, I desperately wished that one of my ‘brothers’ would drop the machismo-frat-shell and give me a hug. It didn’t happen. I wept alone.
Oma survived Opa and has continued on in her life until the present, some 20+ years later. Since becoming a Dad, I’ve only had the opportunity to see her twice, which included one remarkable visit with Atlas.
As I write this, there’s a piece of my heart that’s breaking. Her health is in decline, and I find myself in the painful tear of life’s fabric that happens when ‘what was’ separates from ‘what is’ as it nears the impending ‘what will be’.
Life is a beautiful thing. Just like a rose has its thorns that dig into your flesh when you grasp it, it is a painful thing to hold your loved ones as you watch them grow older, weaker and more feeble with their age.
“Have you given your grandparents a hug lately” was one of the opening lines of Opa’s book. While I have most certainly given them plenty of hugs, there’s a deep part of me that longs to have just one more before it’s too late.
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