Practicing Patience

My grandmother and grandfather are sweet people, really. To the best of my memory, they've never missed a single one of my band performances, drama plays, choir sing-songs, or awards ceremonies. Ever. And somehow they always manage to get first row seating at whatever venue I'm performing at [but they're German, so who knows what violent tactics or red armbands they show to the poor souls who might naively ask "are those seats saved?"].

Grandpa escaped -- on foot -- from WWII Poland to Canada. He witnessed with his own two eyes bombing, blasting, gutting, interrogating, and all sorts of other unmentionable episodes to eventually wind up in Saskatchewan and marry my grandma (whose nickname, ironically, is 'Little Hitler'). Combined, the two of them built a life on the farm from nothing. Beyond the world war, they’ve witnessed field fires, miscarriages, and incorrigible cancer, all of which endangered their little home on the prairie. And yet, lucky for me, grandpa can douse an acreage blaze just as fast as Little Hitler whomps any metastasizing tumor thrown her way -- the two deserve their damn handicapped parking and first row concert seats, no doubt about it.

Sadly, the City of Swift Current disagrees. Three months ago, a new performance center opened up and town council drew names to see where ticket holders would sit for a certain series of concerts. Grandma and Grandpa drew row thirty-six.

There was no talking to them for a week.

No matter how early they showed up (which is often between 2-3 hours ahead) they were stuck in ridiculous row thirty-something. "Curses!" they shouted. "Blaspheme!" "Lächerliche!"

Fast forward from winter to spring: last weekend during my visit home, I asked Little Hitler about how the whole seat situation was working out. Her grin caught me off guard.

"Aren't you still in row thirty-six?" I asked.
"Twenty-eight, dear," grandma replied with a smooth smile. "Hopefully 24 by the end of the month."
"But I thought your seats were permanent?"
"Well grandson, let's just say that after seventy five years you get good at practicing patience."

That conversation didn’t click. When I got home and asked my mom about it, she chuckled and explained, quite matter-of-factly, that grandma and grandpa were moving up by taking the seats of the other elderly audience members who were slowly dying off.

Now THAT's survival of the fittest. German style.