Going to Grandma's House

My parents and my Mom’s siblings have put my Grandma’s house and property and most of the contents up for sale at an upcoming auction later this spring, and for some reason it has me a bit sentimental. I don’t usually get all that sentimental about my Grandma. She is a wonderful woman, and I love her dearly, but I don’t get warm and fuzzy feelings about my Grandma. To me, my Grandma stands for strength and resilience.

My Grandma has always been a strong woman. She grew up in the depression era on a dairy farm in southern Illinois, moved to Michigan with a cousin and worked in an auto plant where she met and married her first love – only to lose him to World War II, raised her 2 young girls on her own until she remarried a few years later, farmed 14 acres with her 2nd husband, raised chickens, canned and froze thousands of fruits and vegetables, quilted numerous quilts, made clothes by hand and machine, taught junior church for 40+ years, and survived her 2 subsequent husbands on the farm. My Grandma is no shrinking violet!

When I think of my Grandma, I always think of her doing something. She didn’t want to sit idle. Whether it was canning creamed corn (which was always wonderful when Grandma made it), making rhubarb jam, hoeing for hours out in her garden or shelling nuts in the basement, I never saw much of my Grandma just sitting. She’d make wonderful homemade meals like real fried chicken with mashed potatoes and homemade gravy, fresh green beans and corn on the cob, tomatoes and pickles, etc. There was always plenty at Grandma’s house.

My Grandma was a story teller and always had something to share. Her stories always started out on 1 topic but wound around into a jumbled set of 5 or more other stories. She’d get sidetracked and tell us something else about what she picked up at the market or who she ran into in town, and I recall my Mom always gently guiding her back to the topic at hand. Sometimes, she would tell a story with a new twist from what we’d heard before, and we’d quiz our Mom about it on the drive home. .

As I think about going back to Grandma’s house, I think of my hours spent roaming her “woods.” It seemed like the woods to me, but it was really just her side and back yards complete with some tall trees and long grass. I’d meander along with my thoughts, talking to myself or making up adventures as I explored her property. When we would stay the night at Grandma's, my Mom and Grandma would open up the sleeper sofa and start making up the bed for my sister and I. We’d jump into bed and say our goodnights. I’d always try to stay awake so I could hear what my Grandma, Mom and Dad were discussing in the kitchen away from our little ears. I knew it was a juicy story or something I would want to know, but somehow, sleep would always win out, and before I knew it, it would be morning, and I’d hear Grandma busy making breakfast in the kitchen.

Our visits to Grandma’s house were always hours longer than expected. My Dad would send us out to the car when it was time to go, but we wouldn’t be able to leave right away. Grandma would want to send us home with a packed car full of fresh green beans from her garden, canned peaches and pears from her basement stockpile, or something else she just had to share. She was very generous. Then as my Dad would start the car, my Grandma would think of thirty more things she had to tell my Mom. We’d pull away and start waving from the backseat, and I’d often catch a glint of a tear in my Grandma’s eye. She was a strong woman, but she didn’t like goodbyes.

For the last couple of years, as a result of several strokes, my 92-year-old Grandma doesn’t do much except sit in her chair in my parents’ living room. She gets around slowly with the use of her walker, and for the most part, she responds to yes and no questions without much more interaction. There are occasions when you can catch a flicker of the woman beneath the strokes, like when she laughs at something one of us has said or when she plays with her great grandchildren. But for the most part, the active, talkative, generous woman of my childhood is gone.

It's hard to grow old. It's hard on everyone. Hard on the person who is losing their health, strength and faculties; and hard on the family members who are just standing by, wanting to help but not always sure what they can do. I don't like it, but it's part of growing up, I guess. Realizing how precious every moment is.