Grandma Ollie

Dear Grandma Ollie,

I’m glad you were my dad’s mother.  Have I ever told you how much I loved you, and how the things you did and said impacted my life for good?  If not, I tell you now. 

Grandpa was right to choose “Pansy” as an affectionate nick-name for you, Grandma.  When I think about the pansy’s colorful, cheerful, smiling face, it fits you quite nicely.

You had a great ministry, Grandma Ollie, although I think you’d have been embarrassed to call it that.  You taught little children in Sunday school and wrote poetry.  You wrote to prisoners, the sick, the shut-ins, the bereaved, or to someone you sensed just needed encouragement.  It was just something you did.  You were naturally that kind of woman—hospitable, kind to others, both in deed and tongue.

Your church had a “Fresh Air” program where, every summer, church families opened their homes to kids from the streets of New York.  Your daughters, Esther and Elsie, each had children stay with them every summer, year after year.  You became their Grandma too, as you involved yourself in their young lives.  Those kids came to know the Lord, and their lives were forever changed.

 Sometimes at night, you’d hear someone in the kitchen, (your house was never locked) put on your robe and slippers and go see who it was.  Invariably, much to your pleasure, you’d find a dating couple or two from your church raiding the fridge.  You loved the young people and they loved you back.

If company stopped by your house unexpectedly for a visit near meal time, you never became resentful or upset.  You took it all in stride.  My mom told me you’d say, “Open the fridge; reach left, reach right, pull everything out, and make a meal.”  Did I mention you were amazing?  I think I could learn from you on that score.  Everything doesn’t have to be “perfect” when I have guests.  Right, Grandma?  You know it.  Your motto was, “When you have a heart full of love, you always have something to give!”  And that’s more important than food.  Mom telling me too how you fed tramps who came through the area looking for work. 

  

Thank you for teaching me how to bake bread, cinnamon rolls, and make “Grandma icing.”  (Today we call it penuche frosting.)  I still have your recipes.  How could I forget walking up the lane from our house to yours on an errand, being greeted by your warm smile and given a thick slice of homemade bread, slathered with rich, yellow, home-churned butter and homemade elderberry jelly?  Or a cinnamon roll slathered with Grandma icing?  My brothers received the same.   

Speaking of my brothers, we kids delighted in using the four-seater bright red metal merry-go-round you had in your yard.  Later on we had one down at our house, too.  I wish I’d have a picture of it.  I and three of my brothers each took a seat, propped our feet on a cross-bar, and pulled the flat lever toward us, then away from us, over and over again until the apparatus spun merrily.  We had to take care not to fall off the seat.  I can still hear our shrieks of delighted laughter as we went ‘round and ‘round.

 One day as we kids ate our bread and jelly and admired your beautiful blue pet parakeet in a cage, you told us to not give him any food.  For some reason, I didn’t resist the temptation to give the wee bird just one teensy bite.  What could it hurt?  The next day, you called us kids up to your house.  I was crestfallen when you told us your parakeet had died.  You asked, “Who fed the bird?”  After what seemed like a long and awkward silence, I admitted I had been the cause of his demise, but you never made me feel “bad.”  I still love you for that.  I learned to forgive easily because I experienced your forgiveness.

You laughed, but never aloud.  My mom says so, too.  Your face wreathed with merriment, your eyes squeezed shut and your body shook with silent laughter.  Your daughters took delight in teasing you about your eyes that narrowed to slits when you laughed.  They asked if you could possibly see anything at all.  That really got you going, and the rest of us laughed even harder—sometimes until we had to wipe tears.  I loved those special times of bonding.

  

I especially remember the times you, daughters Esther and Elsie, my mom, my girl cousins and I got together at the home of one or the other’s for lunch, and brought our sewing, mending, or needlework.  (I embroidered a set of pillowcases once.) Or we’d fill a canner with green beans, peaches, pears, tomatoes, or with whatever food needed to be preserved. Sometimes the day called for wallpapering or painting.  The hostess prepared lunch for us, and we’d sit comfortably in each other’s company and share a fantastic new recipe, tips on cooking, family stories and community news, all punctuated by your special laugh. 

The up and down motion of your feet that moved the threaded needle on the treadle sewing machine fascinated me.  Always neat and clean, you were quite skilled at making your own and Grandpa Claude’s clothing.  I was proud of you as a business woman, too; you made black Amish bonnets, white prayer coverings, and hassocks to sell.  I wish I still had the little hassock you gave us for Christmas one year.  Once, I watched you make a small hassock as you tied four empty metal quart cans together, surrounded them with stuffing, and padded the top and bottom. With sturdy upholstery material, you sewed a fitted covering with contrasting cording around the top on your treadle sewing machine.  I don’t remember how you got the cans inside and sewed the hassock shut.  Did I mention you were creative and talented?

(Thank you, Lela Beachy, for sending me the two "Grandma Ollie" hassocks you had!)  

Even though you were Amish Mennonite, and I was Mennonite of a different stripe, you accepted me as I was.  You were a godly woman of prayer, and took a personal interest in our spiritual lives.  We kids never left your house without being handed a Gospel tract, and I thank God for your prayers for me and my brothers.  Your prayers are still operative, you know.  They never died.  Do you remember the day you walked with me from your house down the lane to my house, and you looked at me and asked, “You’ve become a Christian, haven’t you?”  Did I tell you how surprised I was that you’d noticed?  I hadn’t told you that I stood up in church the week before to publicly declare that Jesus was my Lord and Savior.  You went on to say, “I noticed the change in you.”  Did you know a warm feeling of joy filled my heart at your words?  It profoundly marked my life.

And how could I forget the times in my teen years you walked down to our house and knelt by a chair with me in the dining room to pray together?  Each time, my dad and brothers were out on the highway with the tractors, pulling wagon loads of baled hay home from distant rented farm land in Garrett.  Black, angry clouds filled the sky as lightning flashed and booming thunder shook the house.  You were concerned for them and the hay they’d worked hard to grow, cut, rake, dry, bale, and load, that it not get soaked and ruined by a rainstorm.  Somehow it was okay when you were there to pray with us, and everyone came home safe and sound—including the hay!  Thank you for your prayers, Grandma. 

My ninety-year old mom confirms you never spoke a cross word or expressed anger against anyone.  Instead, you had a ready, warm smile for all.  My mom had a special love for you too; she says you were the best mother-in-law a bride could ever have.  That’s saying a lot, considering she and Daddy lived with you in the same house for some time.  Mom told me about the time a whole pie slipped out of your hands, and fell upside down on the floor.  Instead of complaining and getting angry, you simply started to sing, bent down, scooped it up with a spatula, and cleaned the floor.  I’m sorry to say I have not been such a shining example, Grandma.  You chose to think differently than most people: you chose to be pleasant and positive instead of angry and negative.

“Who can find a virtuous and capable wife?  She is more precious than rubies…Her children stand and bless her… Reward her for all she has done.  Let her deeds publicly declare her praise.”  (Prov. 31:10, 28, 31, NLT)

Grandma Ollie, all your children have joined you in heaven, so I stand and salute you.  I publicly declare your praise—through my writing. 

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy

The Auction

The sale grounds at the home of my paternal grandparents, Claude and Olive Yoder, were crowded.  Outside, the flurry of activity seemed another world to me: they were selling my grandmother’s things—and my grandfather’s too. Since the years of Grandma Ollie’s death, the lonely house, once filled with bustling activity, was no longer to be his home.  

Tired of the noisy din, I withdrew into the house.  The once-orderly home sounded empty and hollow as I took a private moment to walk through the gutted rooms. Alone, I entered the narrow pantry.   A limp, white muslin curtain hung forlornly over a simple rod that drooped at an angle over the narrow open window that almost filled the narrow wall straight ahead.  A gentle breeze stirred the curtain to life as I entered the space. Empty. Like the hole in my heart.  I caressed the gray linoleum-covered shelves that lined the wall on the right—shelves that once held Grandma’s freshly-baked cookies, cakes, pies, pots, pans, and supplies.

I sighed and retreated to the kitchen.  My eye moved to the old Frigidaire refrigerator with rounded top corners, and to the large white gas stove.   The porcelain-covered cast iron sink that once held mountains of dirty dishes and pans of sudsy hot water at many Thanksgivings and Christmases, seemed forlorn without the “cat and kittens” and Aloe vera plants and geranium cuttings on the windowsill.  It was a nice kitchen, really—good countertop space, even if it was covered with linoleum.  I pulled open the deep drawer to the left of the sink where she’d once kept her homemade bread, jelly, and a covered glass dish of “Grandpa butter,” a rich, yellow soft churned butter purchased from local Old-Order Amish farmers.  (The Old-Order Amish had horses and buggies, but Claude and Ollie had a shiny black car, and were members of Mountain View Amish Mennonite Church.)

I took a few steps to the wide archway between the kitchen and dining room, and could once again see the blanket nailed across the opening as we 16 cousins put on a Christmas program (directed by me, I might add).  Those who didn’t have a part in the actual nativity scene would recite Scripture verses or poems.  I got lost in thought as I remembered Christmases in their home—the long, dark dining room table, as every child’s parents sat on a bench behind the table and beyond, Claude and Ollie sitting at the end near his roll-top desk. Through tears, I again saw Grandma’s eyes that would squeeze shut from the broad smile on her face as she beamed with pleasure at her grandchildren’s performance.  (For Amish grandparents, surely they had a more open mindset than what I imagined other Amish folks did, to encourage such play-acting.  And I loved them for it.)  I remember Grandma’s table, laden with food at mealtime, and then with bowls filled with Rice Krispie squares, popcorn balls, nuts, and penuche peanut candy squares, for eating after the gift-giving.

The door above the bottom stair step that led upstairs from the dining room was closed.  I knew there were two spacious bedrooms upstairs with Jack and Jill bath, and storage under the eaves.  Without going upstairs, I bent down and opened the hinged bottom stair tread one last time. Nostalgia swept over me as I remembered the children’s toys she’d always kept for us there.  I wiped tears on my blouse sleeve and walked into the living room, now naked and bare.  No huge, lush trailing ferns sitting on tall pedestals in two corners of the room.  No companionable rocking chairs, couch, or extra dining room chairs lined up under the double windows. No bureau chest of drawers whose top right-hand drawer secreted a yellow plastic hen that laid little round eggs when put on a surface and pressed.  Through the double living room windows, I looked out into the overgrown area where Grandma once kept a flourishing garden, and beyond that to the farm’s orchard where I’d gathered apples as a child.  An ache tugged at my heart as I turned away.  

With slow and quiet steps, as though in respectful mourning for the house, I entered Grandpa and Grandma’s bedroom.  An empty spot that once held their dresser greeted me.  I thought of the top left-hand drawer that had held Grandma Ollie’s white Mennonite head coverings with strings sewn to the bottom corners.  (I used to try one on from time to time, and I could still remember the sense of Grandma’s pleasure when I did so.)  In that drawer was also a thing of great fascination for me—a special teeny purse made of mother-of-pearl with a red lining.  It had a long chain, and inside the purse locket was a tiny note in Grandma’s handwriting: “First gift from my parents 1903.”  On the decorative outside were the words, “Souvenir, Norfolk, VA.”

Two clothes closets with doors still sporting glass knobs, separated by a built-in shelving unit with a hinged door, and hinged hamper chute below it, met my gaze as it swept the room.  The hall bathroom had built-in shelving with a hinged door and laundry chute as well.  I opened the laundry chute one last time and looked down the hole to the basement floor below, now filled with items for the sale.  I choked back the tears, and wound my way back through the kitchen, into the dining room, to the front door.  The green-patterned linoleum beneath my feet seemed cracked and worn, kind of like my feelings. 

I headed outside to the wide front porch that cried out for my grandma’s touch.  No friendly red geraniums greeted me.  The peeled paint and exposed wood seemed to reflect the peeling layers of my emotions and raw sense of loss.  The high concrete steps were crumbling away, and Grandma’s flower beds were no more.  I’d always loved how the porch steps came to a landing that sported a set of steps on either side of it, so one could turn right or left to go to the yard.  

Slowly, I made my way down those concrete steps one last time and turned right toward the garage and basement door and tables that held boxes of sale items.  I spied Grandma’s Bibles distributed throughout several boxes, and I remembered she’d been a writer.  I leafed through her Bibles, and saw they contained notes and papers which I intensely ached to have, but was afraid to take because they were not mine to take.  I’d been told she had a book of poetry somewhere too, but I never got to see it.  

Grandpa Claude, in his wide-brimmed straw hat and white shirt, with suspenders fastened to dark-colored Amish pants, sat quietly on a chair with his wooden cane under the large canopy tent.  Silently, he put a hand on his knee and watched his and Ollie’s things pawned off to the highest bidder.  My heart felt sad that he’d been so lonely without my grandma by his side.  

I left the garage and made my way to my husband and three young children in the crowd.

A bevy of antique dealers circled like sharks around my grandmother’s things.  Then the auctioneer held up a familiar object: that special little heart-shaped mother-of-pearl purse locket!  And I wanted it.  My heart thumped as I began to bid.  Money was tight for our young family, and my heart beat faster as the auctioneer’s voice rose with excited tempo to the duel between me and another bidder—ten dollars, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty—I looked up at Dave.  The auctioneer asked, “Who’ll make it thirty-five?”  Dave nodded and allowed me to bid higher, because he knew how much I wanted something of my grandmother’s.  I had no room for much of anything of Grandma’s in my house, but this little purse locket would fit just fine.  As the auctioneer asked, “Do I hear forty?” my hand automatically shot up.  Strangely, the antique dealer had quit bidding against me.  I felt numb as the bidding stopped with me. I got it for forty dollars!  I’d won!

After awhile, my cousin Pauline sidled up to me and said she was so glad I kept on bidding and got it.  Later, I was told that someone had told the antique dealer I was Olive’s granddaughter, and that’s why he’d quit bidding.  I was grateful for whoever had spoken up for me.

As the auction ended, and we drove away, I was left with the unmistakable feeling that the auction had trespassed on my property—a tender place in my heart.  They’d had no right to be at my grandma’s house, selling and buying her and grandpa’s things.  But they had been, and there was nothing I could do about it.  Farewell, sweet childhood delight. 

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy