Grandpa Gib and Grandma Marie Wagner with grandchildren Mark, Sandy, and Matt

I followed my grandpa up the narrow steel ladder in the dark of night. My two brothers were behind me, with our breath filling the winter air. Our portly grandpa led the charge, his enthusiasm overcoming any lack of athleticism.

As we climbed up the ladder of the grain elevator, its emptiness was apparent. Echoes followed our every step on the cold metal. Just months before, it was filled to the brim, evidence of hard work by local farmers. Now empty, the structure served the sole purpose of lighting a Christmas star to shine down on our town.

1970s winters in Remsen, Iowa, were brutal: cold and long, with snowbanks stubbornly waiting to melt until spring. My brothers and I filled our days playing outside until we got cold and inside until we got bored. We benefitted from having grandparents who lived up the street. Their home was a welcome reprieve on those cold winter days.

Mass was part of my family’s weekend. Dad often served as a lector or usher on Saturday nights during those winter months. Walking two blocks to St. Mary’s Church for service, we would be home in time for the Carol Burnett Show, with Dad often taking over weekend cooking from Mom. We loved his hamburger steaks with onion rings broiled in the oven. The kitchen would exude both welcomed heat and the smell of simmering meat, a sign that we were hunkered in for the weekend. Later, there would be card playing and stove-popped popcorn to finish our evening.

That night in the 1970s, my family began our weekend ritual with Saturday night mass. On our walk home, we were greeted with a change of plans when Grandpa Gib pulled up beside us in his El Camino. Stopping at the curb, he exchanged pleasantries with his son and daughter-in-law before he shared a proposition for his grandkids.

“Hey, do you kids want to climb up the elevator to the Christmas star?”

Jaws dropped excitedly as my brothers and I looked to our parents for approval. With no hesitation, Mom and Dad continued their walk home in the dark while Matt, Mark, and I piled in Grandpa’s truck.

Our little town had two high vantage points: The steeple of the Catholic church and the star on the grain elevator. Both were formidable structures central to our community. The church was a place we frequented often, but we were outsiders to our town’s elevator. Although Grandpa Gib was a manager at Farmers Cooperative in Remsen, we had only visited him in the office building. We observed the towering elevator silos from afar. During harvest, we knew to avoid the bustle of the many unloading farm trucks.

Taking our first steps into the huge concrete structure, we followed the light of Grandpa’s flashlight. With a light-hearted whistle, he fished keys out of his coat pocket and opened the ground-level door to the elevator.

“Always good to check the bulbs during Christmas. We don’t want the star to stop shining!”

Nodding our heads in agreement, we were eager to help out. Grandpa was never a man of many words; instead, he spoke to us with his actions and laughter. His love language was to tease and humor us, skills of which he exceeded expectations.

My earliest memory is with Grandpa Gib. I was a toddler crawling on the floor, pushing a toy. Grandpa teased me as I scooted on my knees in a sundress with matching bloomers. With every push of the toy, Grandpa would flip the back of my dress over my head with his foot. I would respond by pulling it back down. I vividly remember his chuckle and smile from above as he repeated this playful gesture, all while he continued a conversation with another adult towering above me.

Our grandma shared her love with us through her hands, gifting us homemade quilts for Christmas and with cookies fresh out of the oven each time we visited. I can’t remember Grandpa giving me a gift or us having long conversations. But I have a memory bank full of our shared laughter and unexpected adventures.

Grandpa once surprised my brothers and me with our first airplane ride…in a crop duster. We crawled into the tiny plane owned by one of Grandpa’s co-op friends. Shrieking in delight as the pilot spun us through the skies, I closed my eyes as the plane buzzed the ground below.

As Grandpa’s round body would shake in laughter, a constant fixture in his hand was a smoking pipe. My brothers would beg him to try it. Knowing what would happen, Grandpa finally relented and handed them his pipe. They took a puff and immediately threw up.

“Well, now we don’t have to worry about you two taking up smoking anytime soon.”

Much later, when I was a teenager, Grandpa Gib suffered a stroke. The most difficult change for me to grasp wasn’t his immobile arm or limping walk but his frequent tears. I had never seen my grandpa unhappy, let alone cry. I couldn’t reconcile how his forever-happy brain could have this response.

Before his health issues, Grandpa never missed an adventure and generously shared them with us. His decision to take us to the star was likely last-minute. I can picture Grandpa driving down the street, gazing up at the star, and only then deciding to take us to the top of the elevator.

Step by step, we followed our grandpa up the series of ladders. At the top, Grandpa carefully helped us into the open air. Without a word, we saw the amazing view of our town from up top. Grandpa Gib stared ahead in pure joy, sharing with us only a smile. With the huge star shining on our backs, we were breathless from the climb and in awe of the sight before us.

I never believed in Santa. I have no memory of going to bed on Christmas Eve, anticipating a Santa Claus visit overnight. A neighbor boy told me there was no such thing as Santa when I was three. Although my mom was furious with this early revelation, I have harbored no sadness over the years. The magic of Christmas has come to me in different ways. I may never have believed in Santa, but I have always believed.

Looking down at my town next to my jolly grandpa, I experienced something greater than a red-suited man or shiny-nosed reindeer. I felt the wonder of Christmas through the love of family

I believe.