Thank God for Grandparents

Today, I got to do something that I enjoy so much, I should have to pay someone for the privilege.
(Disclaimer:  If any of my children read this, the preceding statement was not meant to be factual.)  It's not every day that a handsome, articulate, fun, enthusiastic, entertaining, athletic guy spontaneously shows up at my door, coffee in hand, and announces he's come to spend the day with me.  But it happened today and I am still smiling just thinking about it.

You may have heard of him already since he's quite the charmer.  Strawberry blond hair, green eyes, a smattering of freckles on that cute face of his.  Yes ladies, he's a looker.  But we know that looks will only get a man so far.  This guy's not just another pretty face, though. He has such interesting stories to tell that I have to admit, I am just putty in his hands.   Why, just this weekend, he spent time surrounded by lions, and tigers, and bears;  hyenas, monkeys, and alligators and enthusiastically shared his adventures with me while we breakfasted.

And he doesn't like just sitting around either, nope, not this man.  One minute, we're engaged in a game of soccer, the next minute we are swan-diving into the swimming pool.  Oh, and did I mention he's a great dancer, too?  He's definitely got rhythm and is not afraid to use it.  He also likes to race cars, dabble in art, and shows promise in the field of architectural engineering.  He's brave but humble while saving the world and doesn't like everyone to know that he's the real Spiderman.  Oh, and he likes to cook, too!

If you don't know him, then let me introduce him to you-readers, meet Waylon, my four year old grandson.  What a guy!  He really does have it all and he certainly tries to do it all and I've got the pictures to prove it.

I will have to admit when I first learned that I would become a grandmother eight years ago, I wasn't as enthusiastic about it as I am now.  Somehow, being someone's grandmother at that time didn't quite have the lovely connotation for me that the title brings with it these days.  Forgive me for being superficial, but I just thought that I was not old enough to be someone's grandmother.   Thankfully, though, God had other plans.

When I think about grandparents, I think about growing up and having both grandmothers and my one surviving grandfather living in close proximity to my family.  My maternal grandparents lived three doors down from us and my paternal grandmother, Grandma Rosie, lived about 10 blocks further.  She's the reason why I learned early to  "Thank God for Grandparents!"

I was my Grandma Rosie's first grandchild.  Now, if ever there were any positive benefits to being the oldest child in the family, being the first grandchild ranks as number one in my book.  To be the first grandchild was a true blessing for me.  My Grandma Rosie made me feel like I was God's gift to her and everybody else in the world.  She loved me and sacrificed for me and made me feel like I was special.  She sewed all kinds of clothes for me in her teeny, tiny back room using a treadle Singer sewing machine.  She taught me how to bake pies.  I swear she bought something like 10 yearbooks from me when I was the 5th grade candidate for Picher Grade School Yearbook Queen just because she I knew I wanted a tiara.

She would let me spend the night at her house whenever I wanted even though she knew she would have to get up early, drop me back off at home, and make sure she was at work by 7 am.  See, Grandma Rosie was a cook, not a chef, but a cook at not only the Fifth Wheel Cafe outside of Columbus, Kansas, but also at the Connell Hotel in Picher.  Sometimes, she would work mornings at the Fifth Wheel on the breakfast/lunch shift and then head back to Picher and work the lunch/dinner shift at the Connell.  Then, she would come and pick me up in her '55 Chevy.  I always loved it when she picked me up right after work because she would still have her white uniform on and when I hugged her, she smelled liked grilled onions and coconut cream pie.  And I can close my eyes and recall that smell to this day.

Grandma Rosie's house was such a fun place to spend time.  It was a shotgun house on Columbus Street in Picher, close to Connell Avenue/ Highway 69, the "condemned area" just off Main Street, and the forbidden "sandpile" just a few steps to the north.  Koronis Drug Store and Keithley's Market were just a little more than a block away as was Martin's Supermarket, Osborne Drug, and Scott's Department Store.  And my childhood friend, Joni Dial, lived right next door.  So adventure, and good times, and cherry cokes were just minutes away from Grandma's front door.  I spent hours out in her yard playing, singing, and dancing to my heart's content, pretending to be all things that an imaginative child can dream of when she is where she most wants to be.  She had a vegetable garden, and flowers, and a drainage ditch that formed the eastern border separating her yard from the houses and businesses on Connell.  I was forever being pulled towards that drainage ditch and the allure  of trying to learn how to balance walk my way on the pipes that spanned it.

When I spent the night at Grandma Rosie's, she would let me choose what I wanted for dinner.  My choices were always things that Mom didn't serve at home like Chef Boyardee Pizza (remember, it came in a box, you mixed up the dough, spread the pizza sauce over it, opened the cans of pepperoni and parmesan cheese and sprinkled them on top, popped it in the oven and 20 minutes later-ouila! pizza!)  And ding dongs, and chocolate pie, and Pop Tarts, and Nehi Pop...

Now, when night rolled around, she would let me have her bed, with its starched and ironed lilac sheets, and she would sleep on the couch.  See Grandma Rosie's house didn't have a bedroom per se, just the small teeny, tiny aforementioned room, so she kept her bed in her living room, right by the water cooler and at a right angle to her television.  After showering, she would always have me lie down in the bed under the premise that it was cool in her house, and I needed to "cover up" with the blankets so not to catch cold after bathing.  It wouldn't take me long to fall asleep, but until I did, I probably was the first kid in Picher who got to watch tv while in bed!

Every night in my prayers, I would ask God to please not let Grandma Rosie die.  I just knew that I wouldn't be able to go on without her.  I loved her so much!  At numerous times during my adult life, I think about my childhood and the positive effect that she had on me and I know, if it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't have become the person that I am today.  By believing in me, she gave me confidence.
By making me feel special, she made sure that I knew I was important to someone.  By encouraging me, she gave me the incentive to try harder, and by taking pride in my accomplishments, she helped me reach my goals.

I hope that I can be that kind of grandmother to my beautiful grandbabies.  They certainly deserve it.  And I hope that everyone had/has their own version of a "Grandma Rosie" in their lives.  We all deserve that, too.    An acquaintance told me last year that I was smart to have retired at this time in my life because I would be able to share those early years with my grandchildren when everlasting bonds are formed and love abounds.  She cautioned me that grandkids, too, like children, will someday get to the age where grandparents are no longer the people that they wish to spend their time with.  Boy, I admit, that is a heartbreaking thought.   For now, though, I am not going to think about that possibility. I am  just going to enjoy the memories that were made today.   And who knows, maybe that good-looking guy will show back up at my door tomorrow with another cup of coffee and a list of fun things we need to get a crackin' on.  If I'm lucky, that is.

Small Town Sundays

When a person reaches a certain point in their life, it seems like all kinds of sensory experiences can whisk them back in time.  Whether it be smells, sounds, or sights, we all fall under a spell and, before we know it, we are remembering, and sometimes, reliving memories from our past.  My biggest triggers seem to be fireflies, box fans, baseball and summertime.   And this morning is no different, as the box fan whirs contently from its place of prominence in the living window and I am looking out on a beautiful sunny Sunday in Southern Oklahoma.  The sounds, the sights, the smells constantly remind me of all the little things that comprised the whole of my childhood - like the now distant Sundays that are etched in my mind for eternity. (I  am forever convinced that the "eternity" reference will hold true; it's the "etched" reference that I am hoping will continue to play out.)

Growing up in a small Oklahoma town, we were like many families - up early, ready, and off to church.  Mom and Dad made sure we attended and, for that, I am eternally grateful, no pun intended!  If it hadn't been for those Sabbaths, spent in Sunday School classrooms and sanctuary worship services, there's no telling how things might have turned out for me.  While I am not saying that I've had a "picture perfect" life, I am confident that I have become a better person because of those early teachings.  I told my Mom one time that, because of our parents' insistence that we attend church, I had never "sinned" accidentally and wouldn't be able to use that as an excuse come Judgement Day.  It's funny and bittersweet, sometimes, to admit and accept that your parents, with all of their shortfalls and eccentricities, really did know what was best for us.  Teenagers, take notice - somehow your Mom and Dad become extremely intelligent after you graduate from college and become adults!

Sundays back in the late 50's, 60's, and 70's really were, for all intents and purposes, "Sabbaths."  No stores were open for business, gas stations were closed, and very few restaurants opened their doors so Sunday Dinner after church was truly "the only thing in town."  I remember Mom rising early and putting on the pot roast with all the fixin's before we even had breakfast.  Sometimes, we would get home and she would do the "quick change" out of her church clothes (remember when we all had church clothes and they were the best and prettiest things we owned?) and into her house dress and apron and fry up some chicken.  Other times, we would head out to my Grandma Rosie's for homemade chicken and noodles or meatloaf or whatever she had on hand.  Believe me when I say that I have never had chicken and noodles that good since.  Grandma Rosie really knew her way around the kitchen!

Afterwards, we would dash outdoors to play until we were summoned inside for my most unfavorite childhood activity - the dreaded afternoon nap.  I was always certain that all kinds of wonderful and exciting things happened to my friends during the two hours that I was forced to lay down and resign from life.  That's how it felt anyways.  Surely, all of my friends and neighbors, who weren't made to nap would have all kinds of thrilling stories to tell me about the adventures they experienced while I "took my nap."  Experiences that I missed out on because I had "to get my rest." I swear my two sisters and I had to take naps every afternoon that we weren't in school until we were of legal driving age.  Well, maybe not until we were that old, but it certainly seemed like we were long past the "normal" age of the afternoon nap-taking set before we won our hard-fought reprieve from this weekend/summertime ritual.

Once we were able to escape the confines of the imposed two hour "rest period", the world was indeed ours.  Whether it was bike riding with our neighborhood friends, or sneaking off to the "sandpile" at Grandma's, I lived for Sunday afternoons.  What imaginative adventures we dreamed up!  Now, I have to admit, being born and raised in a mining town did have its advantages.  Advantages that other kids did not have at their disposal.  All types of leftover mining paraphernalia dotted the landscape around my hometown that consisted mainly of imposing wooden mining derricks that probably were four stories in height to "tailing piles" that consisted of strangely arranged concrete pillars and supports, sort of our own miniature "Stonehenge" right there in Northeastern Oklahoma.

Yep, it was a certainly a child's own piece of paradise, at least in our opinions.  And what fun we had living in that paradise!  See, long before there were video games, or dvds, or social networking sites, kids actually created their own entertainment.  From play-acting as princesses, fairies, or pirates, to the impromptu neighborhood games of baseball or football (strangely enough, and I say 'strangely' because my sisters and I were tall, as in 'stand in the back row of the class graduation picture with the boys' tall, we never played impromptu games of basketball), to the ever-exciting bike chases launched with the intent of capturing the bad guys, did we ever lack for something fun to do.  Wow, maybe that's why even now, my imagination is so vivid.

I know sometimes we tend to embellish or romanticize our past but I don't believe that is the case with our childhoods.  Not that mine didn't have it's rough spots, believe you me.  We certainly experienced our share of drama, trauma, and emergency room visits (most of whom were due to my youngest sister's knack of always finding a novel way of getting a whiplash, an arm sprain, or when resources were limited, a new way to ingest bleach) as did most of the other families in our community.  But we survived, we learned from our mistakes, and we moved on.  We may have grown up in simpler times but that didn't make us simple people, it made us genuine.  We were the generation before technology.  We sat on our front porches and spoke with friends and neighbors who passed our way.  We attended school activities and encouraged and applauded each other.  We frequented our town's businesses because they were owned and operated by our neighbors.  We attended church, and the American Legion Auxilliary meetings with our mom and grandma, and GA's and Girl Scouts because we wanted to do those things, we wanted to belong and learn and make a difference.  We didn't shout at each other, nor bully each other, nor hate each other.  We got along, for the most part.  We were civil to each other and we tried to do the right thing.  I miss those days.