Grandparents Day: A Gonzo Pilgrimage Through Memory, History, and Heaven by Jeff Callaway

 

Grandparents Day: A Gonzo Pilgrimage Through Memory, History, and Heaven

by Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

It’s the first Sunday after Labor Day, September 2025—Grandparents Day, as the calendar insists. I sit in the morning chill, coffee in hand, and nostalgia hits me like a rogue wave off Lake Pontchartrain, where I once hauled in 63 fish with my grandfather Bobby while Uncle Jimmy fought off snakes slithering toward our boat. The official holiday is meant to be a celebration, but for me, with all four of my grandparents gone to their eternal rest, it is a day of ritual remembrance.

So I raise an invisible toast: Happy Grandparents Day, Papa, Mima, Grandpa, and Granny. You shaped me far more than any holiday ever could. Today I go full Gonzo—part history lesson, part confession booth—because journalism should not be a sterile exercise. It should be a dive straight into the beating heart of a thing.

The Birth of a Holiday

Grandparents Day didn’t appear out of thin air, conjured by Hallmark to sell pastel cards. It began in West Virginia with Marian Lucille Herndon McQuade, a woman with the grit to push for something real. Alongside her husband Joseph, she campaigned for a day to honor grandparents—not with platitudes, but with visits to nursing homes and recognition of the wisdom of age.

Her fight gained traction through the 1970s, as she lobbied governors and senators, shining a light on the isolation many elderly faced. By 1978, her work culminated in a presidential proclamation. Jimmy Carter, that peanut-farmer-turned-president, signed it into law, officially designating the first Sunday after Labor Day as National Grandparents Day. Carter’s words acknowledged that American families are “shaped and guided” by grandparents—pillars of stability in a chaotic world. Jacob Reingold, another advocate, joined the cause and helped turn this grassroots push into a national observance.

Yes, Hallmark jumped aboard. Yes, the gift industry makes its money. But McQuade’s vision was never about consumerism. It was about ending elder loneliness, strengthening family bonds, and forcing us to slow down long enough to honor the living repositories of our history. In a culture that warehouses its seniors, this day is a warning flare.

The Architects of My Soul

My own grandparents are gone now, but they remain the cornerstones of my being.

Papa — The Warrior: My maternal grandfather, Edgar Dare—“Cotton” to everyone in town thanks to that shock of white hair—was a Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant who stormed through World War II and Korea. He died when I was five, felled by a sudden heart attack that shattered my childish illusion of immortality. Hearing my Mom tell of his still body was my first confrontation with death, a moment that exploded my innocence. I named my son with “Dare” as his middle name, a quiet tribute to the man who embodied grit and duty. Cotton, happy Grandparents Day in heaven. Your fire still burns in me.

Mima — The Redeemer: His wife, my grandmother Erma Dell Monroe—our beloved Mima—was a devout Christian with the unshakable faith of an East Texan matriarch. When my parents, overwhelmed by my teenage rebellion, tried to psychotherapy the wildness out of me, Mima intervened. She took me in, not as a patient but as a grandson, whispering scripture over coffee and teaching me that redemption is real. She gave me space to grow into the man I am. She passed in 2013, but her gentle wisdom still guides me like a lantern in the dark.

Grandpa — The Fisherman: On my father’s side stood Bobby Dale Callaway, a man of hard work and early mornings on the water. He was an avid fisherman who taught me patience and the thrill of the catch. That day on Lake Pontchartrain, pulling in 63 speckled trout while Uncle Jimmy swatted snakes, felt like a scene ripped from Hunter S. Thompson’s notebook. Bobby passed in 2009, but I still feel him every time I cast a line.

Granny — The Sweet Soul: And then there was Peggy Ann Callaway—Granny—whose kitchen smelled of sugar and vanilla and whose faith was as rich as her desserts. I escorted her to Sunday services in her later years, sat beside her in Bible study, and followed her into the world of art on our trip to the Audubon Zoo. She showed me the birds of John James Audubon and taught me to see beauty where others pass by blind. She left this world in 2024, and the loss still feels raw.

Why This Day Matters

Looking at their lives and this holiday side by side, I see that Grandparents Day isn’t foolish or hollow. It’s a mirror. It reflects the weight of the people who came before us—their wars, their prayers, their recipes, their quiet heroics. They taught me war and peace, faith and folly, art and angling.

This day isn’t about cards or consumerism. It’s about carrying their fire forward. To all grandparents, living or ascended: you are the unsung heroes. And to mine: I love you eternally. Today, I honor you not with flowers or trinkets, but with this remembrance.

~by Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

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