One evening, arriving home later and more frazzled than usual, she looked at Granny's strewn fabric and with a stern expression said, “Mama, you must quit all this sewing. I simply won't come home every evening to this mess. Can't you just enjoy retirement and rest?”
Granny didn't want an argument. Peace was her game. Without a word, she winked at me and quietly went about cleaning up the room, putting away her sewing machine and packing up fabric. The next day she called a taxi and moved to the rooming house of a lady she knew from her church.
When Mother read the brief note Granny left her, she was shocked and saddened. Although they patched things up, Granny never came back, thinking it best to remain independent as long as she could.
During the next few years, spending many hours with her, I began to experience and understand the great lady as never before. No one else could have prepared me to meet life's opportunities like she did. I'd go by after school, and later, when I began to work as a model at Neiman Marcus, she was eager to hear all the exciting details of the clothes and fashion shows. As we shared our lives, I watched her finish twenty-seven heavy, faille burgundy robes with fluted backs for her church choir on her old treadle sewing machine. Listening to the details of her difficult life and her love of her Lord made a great impression on my young mind and guided many of my decisions.
Years later when Granny was diagnosed with cancer, she moved to a small town in Texas where another of her daughters could care for her at home. By that time I'd married, moved to Colorado and had a four-month-old baby.
Granny's illness was long and extremely agonizing. In those days there weren't many miracle drugs for pain. Mother kept me posted on my grandmother's shocking weight loss and described her terrible suffering. Yet, through it all, her faith remained constant.
When the end was near Mother told me Granny wept, saying, “I'm ready to go, but I've seen everyone except Ruthie. I must see her.” I was the only one in the family who had found it impossible to make the trip to say good-bye.
Late one night, at home in Colorado, I was jolted awake and found myself sitting upright in bed. Someone had called my name aloud, yet my husband remained asleep beside me. It was Granny's voice I'd heard. Then I saw her standing in the corner of my dark bedroom. I could see her quite clearly. A shimmering radiance of light shone upon her. She looked just as I remembered her years before, smiling, healthy and vibrant. The love in her eyes for me was a hug that would last through the years. The vision lasted long enough for me to know I was fully awake and reminded me of a quote by Frances Bacon, “If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the hill.”
I did not sleep much more that night, my mind occupied with memories of her.
When Mother called me the next morning to tell me Granny had died in the night, I wasn't surprised. I didn't tell her for quite some time that Granny had stopped by to see me as she ended her earthly journey. I was savoring it as my own private moment with someone who had sewn in me seamless faith and love.
Ruth Hancock
M
uch wisdom often goes with fewest words.
Sophocles
Grandmothers have a way of uniting families through traditions. Some pass down favorite recipes and others share their sewing techniques, but the tradition my grandmother gave us was very different. Her favorite T-shirt read, “This is No Ordinary Grandma You're Dealing With!” And that said it all. Grandma was known by everyone to be an outgoing, witty and feisty woman. So, as you might expect, the tradition she passed on to our family was equally unique.
The summer after my high school graduation was the first time she told me the advice she gave to all the girls in our family. She had taken me shopping in preparation for my first semester of college. As we started toward the department store register with the cart full of everything a dorm room would need, we walked past the lingerie section and she stopped.
“Do you have your red underwear yet?” she asked.
“What? No. . .why?” I stammered, puzzled and embarrassed.
“It's important for every woman to have at least one pair of red underwear.” She glanced at the appalled look on my face. “To wear on those days when you need that extra bit of confidence. When you have a test, a speech, a job interview or any time you need a self-assurance boost.” Grandma went on to explain her philosophy, that when women have their own personal secrets about their “sassy” red underwear, they somehow feel more powerful and self-assured.
“Only you will know this tidbit of information about yourself, and it will give you a little extra edge of confidence,” Grandma counseled.
Standing in the store discussing my underwear choices with my grandma was extremely embarrassing. I assured her I didn't need any underwear and convinced her we should leave.
Months later, after my roommate and I had been up all night studying for our first set of final exams, I stumbled into anthropology class and saved her a seat. She hurried in and sat down beside me with a package under her arm. “I picked up the mail on the way to class and we got another package from your grandma!” We were both excited because Grandma often sent us care packages with cookies and goodies, so I ripped open the parcel right thereâand yanked out a pair of red underwear! Her note simply said, “Thought you could use these. Love, Gram.”
Classmates snickered and whistled as I desperately tried to stuff the contents back in the package, my face as red as the panties.
Many times after that, when discussing an important upcoming event, one of the girls in our family repeated Grandma's advice without hesitation, “Don't forget your red underwear!”
Ten years later Grandma's time on earth came to an end. As we made plans for her funeral service we decided on a final farewell to honor such an inspiring lady. Her daughters, nieces, granddaughters (and even my college roommate) all shared a common secret that day. The music played softly as we gathered together, holding hands in prayer before entering the chapel. We winked at each other and giggled, then walked down the aisleâeach with that “extra edge of confidence.”
Jody Walters
W
hatever you would have your children
become, strive to exhibit in your own lives and
conversation.
Lydia H. Sigourney
The Pine Tree Restaurant was a landmark in Bangor, Maine, for over forty years. Located in the heart of downtown and adjacent to the Greyhound bus station, it served regulars and transients from all walks of life. Boasting typical diner fare, the restaurant's food was good. The desserts were homemade and ample. However, many years after the Pine Tree closed, I learned that the customers didn't always visit for the food.
Natalie Greer was a tall, rail-thin waitress. Her uniforms were white and crisply starched and always adorned with complementing handkerchief and pin. She wore long sleeves year-round, as her skinny arms made her self-conscious. Proficient at her job, she worked at the Pine Tree for twenty-seven years.
Widowed in her forties, Nat raised six children on her wages and tips. Never one to complain, she provided her family with their needs and more. A smile always graced the face of this attractive waitress, and gentlemen frequently asked her out on dates. Never even considering remarrying, she turned them down with a smile and a style and grace generally reserved for those of a higher social stature.
Kindness was this waitress's forte. From the wealthiest of customers to the lowliest of kitchen help, Nat treated everyone the same. She looked after those who had difficulty with their jobs there, and she often stayed late teaching them tricks of the trade. In performing this kindness, she made countless friends.
When Nat was finally forced to retire due to complications from asthma, her many friends she'd made throughout the years came to visit her frequently, bearing homemade treats or invitations to go out to lunch or for a Sunday drive. She cherished these moments as she had cherished these friends.
“How about a nice hot cup of tea and a cookie?” was her standard greeting to those who called.
For years she kept in touch with customers and fellow employees from the Pine Tree. Even in old age, she remained close to many of them. Strewn throughout the Bangor area, they managed to get together occasionally, thanks to one of Nat's daughters and the introduction of senior citizens' transit to the region.
When Nat died in December, 1999, at the age of eighty-two, a few of those same customers and employees attended her funeral. After the service, some offered a few kind words to the family.
“You know,” one elderly gentleman said, “the food was never that great. But Nat could make you feel like a million bucks.”
“I'll miss Nat,” a well-dressed lady said. “She could brighten anyone's day.”
“Didn't she always look nice, with her hair fixed just so, and those pretty pins she wore,” another said.
“I liked to go in on rainy days,” a portly gentleman remarked. “She could make me feel the sun through all the clouds.”
The comments continued in cards and letters.
“When I was broke, Nat would always remind me that if I had my health, I had everything. As I got older I understood how true her words were.”
“It's not how much you have, it's what you do with it that counts. Nat gave so much from having so little.”
Nat never owned a home and she never drove a car. In fact, she never acquired much in the way of material wealth at all. She was, however, richer than most of us will ever beâfor she knew how to look at the positives in life, and she found them in so many unexpected places.
One of the places she found them was in me, her granddaughter. And for many years, I, too, was a waitress. Using the lessons my grandmother taught me, I refused to look at my job as one of triviality, and instead used it as an outlet to reach out to others. I made wonderful friends. I helped people who needed a hand in a variety of situations. And I gained a self-confidence and ease with myself that years later allowed me to pursue my dreams.
My grandmother didn't leave me a trust fund. She didn't leave expensive jewelry or heirlooms I'll pass from generation to generation. What she left me is worth so much more. She instilled in me as a very young child that a person's worth isn't determined by the money they have or the job they perform. It's in the person. No matter how rich or poor, or how highly educated, everyone deserves the dignity of being treated with kindness and consideration. I hope I leave to my children and grandchildren but a fraction of the legacy my grandmother left to me.
Kimberly Ripley
I
s not wisdom found among the aged? Does not
long life bring understanding?
Job 12:12
“Let's go on a walk,” Grandma suggested cheerfully while twisting her wavy, snow-white hair into a bun. The rest of the family was busy in the fields harvesting hay, and it was my responsibility to watch Grandma.
“Oh, no,” I cautioned. “Last time you stepped in a big mud puddle and Mom was very upset.”
“Oh, posh,” Grandma replied. “I'm not going to sit and rock all day. Idle hands are the devil's workshop. Let's make a cake.
“Grandma, we can't make a cake. You can't see,” I reminded her anxiously.
She laughed. “You can do anything you want to if you just try,” she said. “God gave us five senses and seeing is just one of them.” She pulled herself up from the rocker, and I guided her to where her apron hung on the wall.
“Now, get a kitchen chair, child,” she directed.
I pushed the chair up to the counter in our big, sunny pantry. Following Grandma's directions I carefully retrieved a teacup from the cupboard. Putting one chubby hand on Grandma's shoulder, I nestled the cup in her hand. Then I found a big bowl and placed it in front of her. Deftly, she measured two level cups of flour in a big bowl. In amazement, I watched as she blindly searched the containers in the cupboard.
“Now find me the baking powder,” she commanded.
“But Grandma, I can't read,” I stuttered.
“You can taste, can't you?” she replied tartly.
I found a can and handed it to her. She screwed the top off, licked her finger, dipped it in the powder and tasted it. “Oh, no, that's baking soda,” she declared. “Now you try it.” It tasted bitter and fizzy.
The next container I found was not quite so bitter, and Grandmother announced that it most certainly was baking powder. I found the sugar and flour, and Grandma said we could tell which was which by tasting or feeling.
We identified vanilla easily by its smell. Grandma made sure that the lids were replaced on every container and that the containers were put back where they belonged. Then she showed me how to crack an egg properly and let me help beat the cake. By now the pantry was showing the effects of our cake-making.
Grandma ran her hand over the countertop. “Lands, child,” she laughed. “We have made a mess. Never mind, we will have it spick-and-span in a jiffy.” I got a dishpan of sudsy water and wiped the counter vigorously with the dishcloth. I watched as Grandma carefully ran her hand over the counter, feeling to see if it was clean enough. She had me wipe the counter again and then again. Finally she declared it was thoroughly clean.