Hollyhocks, nasturtiums, sunflowers, squash, corn, tomatoes - ingredients for an old-fashioned garden in the 1950s.

I, a child of about 10, adopted an older couple in our neighborhood as my grandparents. She was a white-haired, blue-eyed (with glasses, of course) gentle lady. He was a tall, salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman with a deep voice and a kind manner toward his granddaughter-in-training. He was a photographer and taught me how to tint black-and-white photographs. In one, I'm wearing a green plaid print dress, holding my favorite doll of the time, resplendent in an aqua dress with white lace and with her blondish-brown hair carefully curled in a page boy. I look very solemn, brown eyes behind glasses I had worn since I was 6 years old, and thick braids on either side of my face.

Mrs. Brockman used to come to our house sometimes when I practiced the piano. She listened appreciatively to my pieces on the Baldwin upright that stood in front of our now-unused fireplace, there being no room for the piano elsewhere in our small living room. And I, when invited to her house, loved to do the dishes or anything else to help her (and she made yummy cookies!), whereas these tasks would merely be chores to be avoided if possible at home.

I learned about growing things from Mr. Brockman. His garden was his pride and joy. He delighted in giving me ears of corn or squash or tomatoes with a real tomato taste to take home to my parents. Grandparents they were, giving me a safe

haven two doors down from our house, giving me a perspective from an older generation's point of view. I loved them, loved their quaint ways, their seriousness about their endeavors, their difference from my own parents because of their age.

Now, our grandchildren live far away, on the East Coast. We rarely see them and we feel that we have missed a great chance to be in that special place grandparents occupy in young children's lives. There is a bond, a strong bond, a necessary bond, for the young and the old to bounce off each other. The one, to know and love "old people" and be not afraid to be around them and even some day to become like them. The older group needs the freshness of youth and its naivete, its wonder at the world, its joy in discovering simple truths.

Our very mobile society has lost something irreplaceable by becoming so easily uprooted: a very important mindfulness of the richness of life and how to drink in the experiences of others. My first experience with death came from going to their funerals. And because of the positive attitude they had toward life, I learned to grow into an acceptance that death, too, is part of life.

I hope our grandchildren have "grandparents" close to them, too.

Sharalee Springmeyer Schwarz-bart is a San Rafael resident. The IJ has been asking readers to share their stories of love, dating, parenting, marriage, friendship and other experiences for our How It Is column. All stories must not have been published in part or in its entirety previously. Send your stories of no more than 500 words to relating@marinij.com. Please write How It Is in the subject line. The IJ reserves the right to edit them for publication. Please include your full name, address and a daytime phone number.