In the early 2000s, the Crawfordsville Public Library drew up plans to repurpose the old Carnegie Library and build a much larger facility out of brick, stone and glass on the other side of Washington Street, the main thoroughfare running north and south through this town of about 16,000.
Joe and I were living in a 1950s brick ranch on Country Club Road at the time, raising young children on a tight budget. When a letter arrived asking for contributions to the library’s building fund, we sent in a modest check – likely no more than $50.
Much to my surprise, when I attended the grand opening of the new library in 2005 with my girls, I saw my name and Joe’s etched into a stone wall near the entrance. Directly underneath us on the honor roll of donors were the names of my in-laws, Ken and Velma Roberts.
I first met the Roberts family in 1987, the summer that Joe and I fell in love at Ball State University. One weekend, Joe drove us to his family’s home in rural Crawfordsville, where fields of corn and beans swayed in the July breeze.
A liberal suburban girl at heart, I worried I wouldn’t have much in common with two empty nesters living out in the country. And yet from the first night I stepped into their house, I immediately felt welcome in the loving home that Ken and Velma had created.
That weekend, as we crowded in the dining room to celebrate the birthday of one of Joe’s nieces, I thought to myself, “If I marry this guy, I get all of his family as a bonus.”
Joe and I married at the Wabash College Chapel in 1990. As we posed for photos, me in an ivory beaded dress and Joe in a gray tuxedo, my new in-laws stood alongside us. Velma, a short brunette, looked elegant in mint green chiffon, while Ken, a foot taller, towered over her in a tux that matched his son’s.
My brother-in-law Bruce joked that I was now officially one of the “outlaws.” But everyone knew the truth: to Ken and Velma, there were no in-laws. We were just family.
Settling into a town two and a half hours away, we drove to Crawfordsville on weekends and for the family’s annual Christmas Eve party, simply called Roberts Family Christmas.
Five years later, I accepted a position in Crawfordsville and we purchased a DIY special, a 1920s Craftsman bungalow on Market Street. For three months, I lived with Ken and Velma while I started my new job, Joe packed up our existing home and we rehabbed the bungalow on weekends.
As Velma cooked meals and I washed dishes at the Roberts homestead every night, Ken rode his lawnmower around their vast yard and tended to his Calla lilies and irises.
When our firstborn arrived in 1998, Ken and Velma waited with my parents at the hospital in Indianapolis for the birth of their ninth grandchild. In 2001, when their tenth and final grandchild was born, they cared for Eve until we came home with Allie a few days later.
As the children grew, so did their bond with Grandpa and Grandma Roberts. They had tea parties with root beer in Grandma’s kitchen and rode around the yard with Grandpa on his riding mower. Eve and Allie loved how genuinely interested their grandparents were in their school activities and hobbies.
Life eventually took us further away. In 2012, we moved to the Lafayette/West Lafayette area, and in 2022, to Cincinnati. Between visits, we stayed in touch via phone and Facebook, where on days when he had nothing profound to say, my father-in-law would simply post, “Still vertical.”
Not long after our move to Lafayette, my mother-in-law became ill. Ken devoted the next four years to caring full-time for Velma, learning to cook regularly for the first time in his life. Soon, he was baking homemade cinnamon rolls, casseroles and decadent brownies.
For his 80-something birthday, the family gifted Ken with a stack of cookbooks. When he unwrapped an apron and tied it on, the living room erupted in laughter. My father-in-law, in on the joke, laughed alongside us.
Velma died in 2017. Ken remained in their home until last November, seven months after we celebrated his 95th birthday. With more than 50 people in the immediate family by then, we had to rent an event space in a church, where some of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren shared tributes to Grandpa Roberts as we snacked on cookies and cupcakes.
Last winter, after moving to assisted living, Ken was hospitalized with double pneumonia, caught COVID in rehab and was diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism, defying the odds on all three. During one of our last visits this spring, he was still vertical in his office chair, checking Major League Baseball scores on his computer and sharing funny stories about the staff and residents.
Last Wednesday, Ken was hospitalized for the final time. By the time Joe and I arrived after midnight, he was sleeping peacefully.
Just after 5 p.m. on Thursday, Ken slipped away. He was 96 years and 3 months old.
On Friday, after running some funeral-related errands, Joe and I stopped at one of our local favorites, Arni’s, just west of the library. Walking back toward the van after lunch, I told Joe I wanted to visit the donor wall next door.
Standing there, looking at our names etched one on top of the other, I felt a sense of shared history with my father-in-law.
The family that Ken built, the love he gave and the names we share are permanently set in stone. I am honored to stand alongside him for as long as that building remains.
Hydrangea Studio 