You know those movies where the little girl is laying on her back, in a dandelion filled hill, starring adoringly into the sky and dreaming of her future. There were moments in my childhood that I was that little girl. They only happened when I visited my grandmother’s farm.
The trip to her house was always filled with angst and trepidation. 5 bodies crammed into the front seat of the El Camino and not a seat belt in sight. Cautious and quiet, as the excitement built to a level that was so incredibly hard to contain within our little bodies. Not a word escaped from our lips. Knowing glances were given to brother as we passed the house with the big tire tractors. It was a landmark. Not much longer until we got to grandma’s.
And when we turned onto that quarter mile driveway. The only way to explain that feeling is like there was an invisible line that separated the road and her drive way and when you crossed that, evil daddy had to check his attitude on the other side of the line, because it would not be tolerated, in any shape or form, on that other side. It was like on one side I was the scared little girl who was told to shut up with words and fists and on the other I was the girl who was allowed to run free, build houses in refrigerator card board boxes and paint my fingernails any color I wanted.
They would drop us off and I’m sure that I never stood in dismay and sadness watching the dust be kicked up by the wheels of their car. They could have never of come back and it would have been okay with me. I was “home”.
My grandmother claims that she doesn’t have much patience, and I’ve seen hints of that here and there growing up, but she treated us like gold. She is why I make the best damn fried chicken gravy. Ever. Sorry, you can say yours is better, but shamefully, it would be a lie, and for that, I will not apologize. She taught me everything there was to know about cooking. I made the most scrumptious chocolate chip cookies that would send me into a raving fury when my brother and uncle would tried to steal one fresh out of the oven. I made real sour cream chocolate cakes, from scratch, no box to be found. I listened and watched ans she magically took what was only suppose to feed 4 and turned it into a feast for 10 when extra folks from church showed up unexpectedly. I watched her as she found a billion and 3 things to entertain us with; beads and dress up clothes. Beads to be strung on fishing line. Books and more books, and every single one of them caught our attention and provided us with stories we would have never of read in our every day lives.
I admired her like hell. She worked for the University of Nebraska in the student registration department. She was an upper upper person. She had an office and a secretary who always had peanut M&M’s on her desk. She was in charge of getting all those kids registered during a period that didn’t have computers. I can’t imagine the stress that came each year as she was put to task to literally orchestrate a system that was by everyone’s standards chaos. But she did it. With great poise and confidence and she did it really well.
I always knew, from the moment I could understand that I wanted to be like someone, that she was the person I wanted to be like. She was a successful woman who never forgot her family. She was confident and stubborn and strong. She was so graceful at striking blows to those who doubted her, and when she was done, those who received the blow didn’t even realize what happened to them and would thank her for her time. She was a kind woman, who invited men and women to the holiday gatherings simply because they were here in Nebraska, without their own families, and we don’t let people spend holiday’s by themselves when we have a perfectly good place at our table. There was always some stranger at our table, and we all greeted them with a smile and a hand shake and a very direct “PASS THE BUTTER”.
We moved back to Nebraska after our “breaking out of Nebraska” phase for one reason. Family. I needed my children to know the wonderful woman that grandma is. I wanted my daughter to draw from my grandmother the same ideological qualities that I drew myself. I wanted my kids to know a woman, who at age 85 something, is still as active as her body allows it and has made a packed to never stop learning.
Tomorrow, grandma goes in for surgery to replace a bum hip. She’s had it replaced once before, but it isn’t as dependable as we expected it to be. We’re all a little scared even if we don’t show it on our faces. There is a glue in every family. The person who keeps us all coming back to the same place, time and time again. The person who mediates and delegates and negotiates so that we all figure out how to get along. She is that in our family. She is mom, grandma, great-grandma. She is loved and admired not just by her family but by all the families she has touched in her life. We spent the day with her today, and as we gave her a goodbye hug and kiss, we lingered a second longer then usual.