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