‘No generation gap’ between these families
“We’re moving to the appital capital of the world,” our daughter informed her African friends in early 1985. Apples? Washington? Unimaginable. We’d just spent six good years savoring bananas and mangos in Kenya.
We drove across the United States, visiting our families along the way, and in early June crossed the Idaho border into Washington. No longer just a place on the map, the city of Spokane loomed large.
Once settled into our rental, we headed to Otis Orchards to meet shirttail relations we had contacted but never met. Jean and Norman Whitford warmly welcomed us through the back door. We trooped into the kitchen, where we felt right at home.
For our children who had just left the land of handmade soccer balls and corncob dolls, there was something for everyone. A well-loved Fisher Price doll house and furnishings tucked under the coffee table captivated our daughter while her younger brother took off on an old bike. Our oldest son picked up a basketball and shot hoops out by the barn.
We became regulars at the Whitford acreage and our children called them Grandma Jean and Grandpa Norman. They helped us re-enter American culture and welcomed our tagalongs: foster children, single adults or young friends.
After a full day of fun and food, our son’s friend once commented, “I know this is September, but today sure seemed like Thanksgiving!”
Fast forward to 2004 and our son Ben, married with three children of his own, had not been out to Otis Orchards for some time. He loaded everyone into his van and we headed out to the Valley.
Once again, the back door opened and the Whitfords greeted the next generation with their usual flair for hospitality. I ushered my granddaughters into the living room where they delighted in playing with the toys under the coffee table.
Two-year-old Noah wandered outside to join his dad and Norman shooting hoops. Norman stopped and went into his barn. He emerged with a full-size hoop, which he held at just the right height and distance. Noah swished one set shot after another from two feet away.
Later, as we savored home-grown raspberries on vanilla ice cream, Noah leaned over and rested his head on Norman’s arm. Ben regaled his children with stories from the past. Their mouths watered as he described Jean’s delicious rolls hot out of the oven.
In their imaginations, they heard the crack of the bat as their dad hit the long ball and ran around the bases on the vast green lawn. He also reminisced about joining Norman, his son, Steve, and grandson, Matt, on an intergenerational team for Hoopfest in 1990 and ‘91. Jean made them all shorts to match. They called themselves “No Generation Gap.”
We left that day with grateful hearts. Over supper that night, Norman told Jean, “Good food, but it isn’t the same without Noah’s head on my shoulder.”
Basketball continued to be a point of connection last winter when they faithfully attended the high school games of the Oaks, where Ben coaches the varsity team.
In mid-September, Ben and his family gathered around Jean’s hospital bed and received the familiar warm Whitford welcome. Together, the generations enjoyed her last happy Saturday morning. Two weeks later, Noah, now nearly 4, sat wide-eyed on his father’s lap at Jean’s memorial service listening to a rousing rendition of “I’ll Fly Away.”
“Great-Grandma Jean went to heaven and Great-Grandpa Norman is alone,” Noah announced to us this week, emphasizing alone. “Daddy says that God will take care of us when we die. May I have another roll?”