Monday, September 3, 2012
Picher Perfect: Raising Grandma
Picher Perfect: Raising Grandma: Those of you who know me, know how much I love to write. Those of you who know me well, know how hard it is for me to make myself do so. I...
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Raising Grandma
Those of you who know me, know how much I love to write. Those of you who know me well, know how hard it is for me to make myself do so. It's not that I dread it or don't think that I will have anything to say. It's just that, sometimes, my days fly by and before I know it, it's gone. Not that I can pinpoint what took it up all those hours, it's just done and no writing has taken place.
So, please take this as an explanation as to the major length of time that has elapsed between this blog and the last one I wrote, which incidentally, just happened to be about my dear Grandma Rosie and what she meant to me, how she helped me become the person that I am today, and how I hope to be as good a grandmother to my grandchildren as she was to me. (And, as easy as it sounds, it proves daily to be harder than it seems!)
This past week, I had the opportunity to keep two of my grandchildren while their mother was out of town for several days. Her trip happened to coincide with the starting of school for these two wonder kids and added, yet, another dimension to the learning curve for this grandma.
Now, let me begin by saying that it's been a long, long time since I traversed the intricacies of the school drop off/pick up maneuver and, admittedly, my first attempt in this millennium was not all that successful or without challenges. In my defense though, the only instructions I received concerning this very important part of the educational process prior to my first assignment were to "just follow the car in front of you and do what they do."
Seemed simple enough. So, after arriving at school a few minutes early on that very first day and noticing other parents parked on the south side of the circle drive, I snagged the next available slot in line. I then focused most of my attention on the car directly ahead of me. The rest of my attention was focused on what I deemed to be "the pickup portico"where my beautiful six year old granddaughter and her teacher (a lovely woman whom I had met the night before at the "complete the paperwork/school supply drop off" event) were suppose to meet up with me.
Unfortunately, it wasn't long until my sight line to the aforementioned portico became completely obstructed by all of the SUVs and pickup-driving parents who were in the lane to the left of me. They then parked their vehicles in the designated spaces and walked over to the pickup portico to wait for their children. I was slightly baffled at this new development but still, for the most part, committed to sticking with the plan previously discussed that involved following the car in front of me. It was evident that the "parkers" weren't going to employ that strategy. Just as well since the parking lot was beginning to become a bit congested and movement had virtually come to a standstill.
The situation became further complicated when I noticed that another line had formed leading up to the portico made up of vehicles entering from the street. This line could have been the tail end of the line that I was already in and that circled counterclockwise back behind me. Or it could have been a new line that had formed while I was focusing on the car in front of me. Who knows? To add to the confusion, there was yet another line that formed to the east of the school in a smaller parking lot merging at a right angle with the line coming in off the street. By now, the choice of lines that I could have possibly been in grew to three not counting the line of cars who were jockeying for the few remaining parking places in the main lot and were certain to become part of the now growing "parkers" movement.
Doubt began to creep into my mind as to whether I had misunderstood the only instruction that I had received (just follow the car in front of you and do what they do). Now instead of the one and only option that I thought I had of driving through and picking up my granddaughter (kinda like the drive through window at Burger King), I now, it seemed, had a second option of parking the Jeep, and walking over and retrieving my grandchild by hand (akin to the dine-in option at McDonald's). Made me start to wonder if I waited long enough, maybe a Sonic option might become available and I could just push a button and a carhop would deliver my granddaughter to me curbside. As you can see, my confusion and impending fear that somehow I was gonna mess this up big time was beginning to take hold.
At this point, I couldn't tell due to all the cars now blocking my sight line as to what the procedure was going to be. I did know that things were becoming complicated. Questions begin to pop into my mind that made me wonder whether I was competent enough to be charged with this responsibility. Questions like "How do I ascertain if I am in the right line?" What's the criteria? After all, there were no guide signs evident, no painted symbols in each lane designating the lane for either the parkers or the drivers, no "you are here" maps to check my location against. What's a confused and directionally challenged Grandma to do?
And then, the plot thickened. The vehicle in front of me who had all the power according to my instructions and, unbeknownst to them, was in charge of me, did something totally unscripted. They broke rank, pulled out of the line up, and went rogue, skirting between the parking lot and the parked circle of cars towards an unknown destination. I was worried yet intrigued. Wasn't I suppose to "just follow the car in front of me and do what they did"? Did I have a choice? So I did something, I took the bull by its horn and made a decision. And, as is always the case when the decision involves changing lines/lanes, I made the wrong one.
Faced once again with a moment of crisis and indecision, I reverted back to what has become second nature to me, I let my foot do the talking. My right foot to be more explicit. You know the one that was on the brake that is now on the gas. Yeah, that one. I followed the car in front of me. And in doing so, I felt confident it was the right thing to do. After all, this parent obviously knew what she was doing, had done it before, and probably was an expert at it. All I had to do was draft her and I'd be right where I was suppose to be - at the pickup portico retrieving my granddaughter at just the right time/spot. (For those of you who have picked up a child from school, you know that timing is everything!)
As we passed the other parents still patiently waiting in the circle drive line, I was hoping no one would think that I was "cutting" and would understand that it was my destiny to follow the car in front of me. Basically, I was just following orders. But even before I finished mentally apologizing to the other folks in line, the car in front of me abruptly and deftly turned left into an opening in the drive-through pick up lane that materialized when another car heading up the "entering from the street" line stopped short to visit with a pedestrian. Voila! Magically, the car in front of me moved to the right hand lane where she needed to be under the pickup portico. A kind and helpful staff member opened the rear passenger door, helped the driver's child into the waiting vehicle, and it was done. I saw it with my own eyes. The process works!
Now I was re-energized. I can do this! I am an intelligent woman with years of driving experience, most of which was legal and enables me to maintain insurability. I am ready! There's my granddaughter. There's her lovely teacher. The time is now. Just do it.
Even though I knew I had my work cut out for me after witnessing the slick maneuver performed by "the car in front of me", all I had to do was mimic her strategy and I will have conquered this demon known as the school parking lot. Hopefully, it would go as smoothly for me as it did for my mentor. (Spoiler alert: well it didn't.)
I look to the right and my lane is open. I look ahead and the vehicle from the "entering from the street" line is still stopped short and there is a space that I can turn left into and move over to the right lane and retrieve my grandchild. Yes, yes! I signal left hand turn and am just about to make my move over to the far right lane when the vehicle in the "entering from the street" line starts to move up. Oh no! There's no place for me to move over to the right "pick up your child here" lane now. I am trapped. There's no place to go but forward and there's no line to move into. I am my own line. Evidently, it's the line to nowhere because no one else is in it. This is just wrong in so many ways but mainly because I have no car in front of me to follow now. It's decision time again. Crunch time. Usually not the time that I make my best decisions. Especially decisions involving lane changes. But I do what must be done. I stop. Completely. As in not moving at all.
The lovely teacher spots me now mainly because my granddaughter jumps up and announces loudly "There's my Bella!" I can see the teacher is in a quandary. She recognizes me from our introduction the night before but also recognizes that I am not in the right lane (figuratively or literally) to safely pick up a student. However, I truly believe she sensed the hopelessness I was experiencing and felt compassionate toward me in my present situation. Here I was, stopped in the middle of the "pickup portico no parking area" in a state of parked-ness with a look of total ineptitude on my face. Surely, it was a sad sight indeed. So she did what most first grade teachers would do in that situation. She took my granddaughter with her right hand, stopped traffic with her left hand, made her way to me across a lane of traffic, opened the rear passenger door, placed my granddaughter safely in my Jeep, and left me with these parting words, "You can't pick her up from this lane again."
Thanks and point noted. God Bless You, Mrs. Judd! Tomorrow I will do better...
Wait a minute! Oh no! I have to do this again tomorrow?
So, please take this as an explanation as to the major length of time that has elapsed between this blog and the last one I wrote, which incidentally, just happened to be about my dear Grandma Rosie and what she meant to me, how she helped me become the person that I am today, and how I hope to be as good a grandmother to my grandchildren as she was to me. (And, as easy as it sounds, it proves daily to be harder than it seems!)
This past week, I had the opportunity to keep two of my grandchildren while their mother was out of town for several days. Her trip happened to coincide with the starting of school for these two wonder kids and added, yet, another dimension to the learning curve for this grandma.
Now, let me begin by saying that it's been a long, long time since I traversed the intricacies of the school drop off/pick up maneuver and, admittedly, my first attempt in this millennium was not all that successful or without challenges. In my defense though, the only instructions I received concerning this very important part of the educational process prior to my first assignment were to "just follow the car in front of you and do what they do."
Seemed simple enough. So, after arriving at school a few minutes early on that very first day and noticing other parents parked on the south side of the circle drive, I snagged the next available slot in line. I then focused most of my attention on the car directly ahead of me. The rest of my attention was focused on what I deemed to be "the pickup portico"where my beautiful six year old granddaughter and her teacher (a lovely woman whom I had met the night before at the "complete the paperwork/school supply drop off" event) were suppose to meet up with me.
Unfortunately, it wasn't long until my sight line to the aforementioned portico became completely obstructed by all of the SUVs and pickup-driving parents who were in the lane to the left of me. They then parked their vehicles in the designated spaces and walked over to the pickup portico to wait for their children. I was slightly baffled at this new development but still, for the most part, committed to sticking with the plan previously discussed that involved following the car in front of me. It was evident that the "parkers" weren't going to employ that strategy. Just as well since the parking lot was beginning to become a bit congested and movement had virtually come to a standstill.
The situation became further complicated when I noticed that another line had formed leading up to the portico made up of vehicles entering from the street. This line could have been the tail end of the line that I was already in and that circled counterclockwise back behind me. Or it could have been a new line that had formed while I was focusing on the car in front of me. Who knows? To add to the confusion, there was yet another line that formed to the east of the school in a smaller parking lot merging at a right angle with the line coming in off the street. By now, the choice of lines that I could have possibly been in grew to three not counting the line of cars who were jockeying for the few remaining parking places in the main lot and were certain to become part of the now growing "parkers" movement.
Doubt began to creep into my mind as to whether I had misunderstood the only instruction that I had received (just follow the car in front of you and do what they do). Now instead of the one and only option that I thought I had of driving through and picking up my granddaughter (kinda like the drive through window at Burger King), I now, it seemed, had a second option of parking the Jeep, and walking over and retrieving my grandchild by hand (akin to the dine-in option at McDonald's). Made me start to wonder if I waited long enough, maybe a Sonic option might become available and I could just push a button and a carhop would deliver my granddaughter to me curbside. As you can see, my confusion and impending fear that somehow I was gonna mess this up big time was beginning to take hold.
At this point, I couldn't tell due to all the cars now blocking my sight line as to what the procedure was going to be. I did know that things were becoming complicated. Questions begin to pop into my mind that made me wonder whether I was competent enough to be charged with this responsibility. Questions like "How do I ascertain if I am in the right line?" What's the criteria? After all, there were no guide signs evident, no painted symbols in each lane designating the lane for either the parkers or the drivers, no "you are here" maps to check my location against. What's a confused and directionally challenged Grandma to do?
And then, the plot thickened. The vehicle in front of me who had all the power according to my instructions and, unbeknownst to them, was in charge of me, did something totally unscripted. They broke rank, pulled out of the line up, and went rogue, skirting between the parking lot and the parked circle of cars towards an unknown destination. I was worried yet intrigued. Wasn't I suppose to "just follow the car in front of me and do what they did"? Did I have a choice? So I did something, I took the bull by its horn and made a decision. And, as is always the case when the decision involves changing lines/lanes, I made the wrong one.
Faced once again with a moment of crisis and indecision, I reverted back to what has become second nature to me, I let my foot do the talking. My right foot to be more explicit. You know the one that was on the brake that is now on the gas. Yeah, that one. I followed the car in front of me. And in doing so, I felt confident it was the right thing to do. After all, this parent obviously knew what she was doing, had done it before, and probably was an expert at it. All I had to do was draft her and I'd be right where I was suppose to be - at the pickup portico retrieving my granddaughter at just the right time/spot. (For those of you who have picked up a child from school, you know that timing is everything!)
As we passed the other parents still patiently waiting in the circle drive line, I was hoping no one would think that I was "cutting" and would understand that it was my destiny to follow the car in front of me. Basically, I was just following orders. But even before I finished mentally apologizing to the other folks in line, the car in front of me abruptly and deftly turned left into an opening in the drive-through pick up lane that materialized when another car heading up the "entering from the street" line stopped short to visit with a pedestrian. Voila! Magically, the car in front of me moved to the right hand lane where she needed to be under the pickup portico. A kind and helpful staff member opened the rear passenger door, helped the driver's child into the waiting vehicle, and it was done. I saw it with my own eyes. The process works!
Now I was re-energized. I can do this! I am an intelligent woman with years of driving experience, most of which was legal and enables me to maintain insurability. I am ready! There's my granddaughter. There's her lovely teacher. The time is now. Just do it.
Even though I knew I had my work cut out for me after witnessing the slick maneuver performed by "the car in front of me", all I had to do was mimic her strategy and I will have conquered this demon known as the school parking lot. Hopefully, it would go as smoothly for me as it did for my mentor. (Spoiler alert: well it didn't.)
I look to the right and my lane is open. I look ahead and the vehicle from the "entering from the street" line is still stopped short and there is a space that I can turn left into and move over to the right lane and retrieve my grandchild. Yes, yes! I signal left hand turn and am just about to make my move over to the far right lane when the vehicle in the "entering from the street" line starts to move up. Oh no! There's no place for me to move over to the right "pick up your child here" lane now. I am trapped. There's no place to go but forward and there's no line to move into. I am my own line. Evidently, it's the line to nowhere because no one else is in it. This is just wrong in so many ways but mainly because I have no car in front of me to follow now. It's decision time again. Crunch time. Usually not the time that I make my best decisions. Especially decisions involving lane changes. But I do what must be done. I stop. Completely. As in not moving at all.
The lovely teacher spots me now mainly because my granddaughter jumps up and announces loudly "There's my Bella!" I can see the teacher is in a quandary. She recognizes me from our introduction the night before but also recognizes that I am not in the right lane (figuratively or literally) to safely pick up a student. However, I truly believe she sensed the hopelessness I was experiencing and felt compassionate toward me in my present situation. Here I was, stopped in the middle of the "pickup portico no parking area" in a state of parked-ness with a look of total ineptitude on my face. Surely, it was a sad sight indeed. So she did what most first grade teachers would do in that situation. She took my granddaughter with her right hand, stopped traffic with her left hand, made her way to me across a lane of traffic, opened the rear passenger door, placed my granddaughter safely in my Jeep, and left me with these parting words, "You can't pick her up from this lane again."
Thanks and point noted. God Bless You, Mrs. Judd! Tomorrow I will do better...
Wait a minute! Oh no! I have to do this again tomorrow?
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
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.
(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.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
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.
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.
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