Memories of Grandma

I never realized how much a part of life my with Theresa revolved around food. We spent much of our quality time together preparing food and eating our many creations.

Theresa, or Grandma, as everyone else called her, always had a snack and a story on a balmy, pre-fair August evening snipping beans on my parents' porch. Homemade rye bread (complete with those blasted caraway seeds that always lodged themselves between my teeth), freshly churned butter and a thick slice of sharp Wisconsin cheddar was just one of her specialties. I wonder how many nights I sat in her creaky, pea-green rocking chair watching Hee-Haw and The Dukes of Hazard snacking on those sandwiches. Not enough, I assure you.

Theresa taught us to never waste anything. We used to attribute it to her growing up during The Great Depression. Now, I think it had more to do with teaching us the value of everything on earth and our responsibility to remember that all things have value. Every spring, when the dandelions would blossom in our lawn, I would help Theresa gather bucketsful of their heads. She was so slight, under five feet tall at this time, that carrying around those five gallon pails, even if they were only full of yellow dandelion heads, made her appear even stronger than my dad. And my dad was strong! She would then cook the heads and whip up a batch of her famous dandelion wine which of course was not "ready" for at least a year. I was pretty young, but I do remember tasting the wine on special occasions. Not a Thanksgiving went by that I didn't try it again and get that same awful knot in my stomach 15 minutes after my sip. Some liked it, but I liked what it represented: hard work, fruits of our labor, if you will, and quality time spent with Theresa.

Not only did we use the dandelion heads for wine, we also picked these sour green weeds, yes, weeds, that grew in the lawn that Theresa called spinach. Well, they were not the spinach I know today, but with a little butter and salt, they weren't so bad. I never wanted to tell my friends I ate weeds from the lawn. How weird is that? They already knew we grew all our own vegetables in our mammoth garden, I didn't need for them to also know we ate weeds!

And our garden was huge! With 11 children being supported by a small dairy farm, we needed to feed ourselves with what we could grow. Theresa would be in the garden as early in spring as possible until potato harvest in late October. She was weeding soon after dawn and often until sunset. I was required to help, not as many hours per day as she worked, but I had to put in my share. When I did, I tried to work as close to her as I could, passing the time listening to her stories of wild spring storms and humming old church hymns I swore I could never forget. Theresa, clad in her wide-brimmed straw hat and "Ray Charles" sunglasses, showed me the best way to stake a tomato, hill potatoes efficiently and effectively, and trellis the peas to get the most productive harvest. The gardening knowledge didn't really matter to me but I listened to be polite. What I really wanted was some company during the drudgery.

Then, after a long day in the garden, Theresa invited me into her house for supper. Freedom. I didn't have to eat at the table with the rest of the family and more importantly, I wouldn't have to spend hours washing dishes after the meal. I also knew I would get freshly squeezed orange-lemonade with our pot roast and newly-dug potatoes. Dessert was guaranteed to be special. Maybe it would be kolaches from the previous Saturday morning's baking. Maybe we would have ice cream with fresh raspberries from the patch behind her house. Or maybe warm bread with violet jelly made from the violets I helped pick from the lawn. Two things were guaranteed: Grandma would drink hot water from the "I love Grandma" mug I gave her for her 75th birthday and "The Last Supper" would watch us during our meal stating, "Take this, all of you, and eat it."

After dinner, after I had helped clear the table and wash the dishes, we would play 500 Rummy and other card games. But in the spring, we had different rituals. During maple syrup season, Grandma took on the role of late-night watchman when a batch of sap was close to becoming full-fledged maple syrup. I think she did it because we kids either had jobs or school the next day and really needed to get some sleep. I liked it when this was required on the weekends because I was allowed to go to the sugar bush with her at 10 P.M. to keep the fire burning all night, and thus, the sap simmering. This is a very crucial stage in syrup making, and I felt important to be included and relied so heavily upon. Grandma would give me a taste of the sap throughout the night, setting the hot tin cup in one of the last remaining spring snowbanks near our shack to cool the scalding liquid. As the sap became thicker, my samples would decrease. Despite this, I still managed to get an upset stomach more times than not. And in the morning, when I awoke on the beat-up couch curled up in my heavy sleeping bag, the syrup would be ready to be put into cans and hauled to the house for a thorough cleaning. Grandma and I would walk home with a new feeling. I can't quite describe it, but it felt like a new beginning, a new understanding. It was truly spring.

I remember one specific day of gardening with Grandma. It wasn't particularly hot nor humid that day, but we put in long hours and it felt strangely tiring. I had 17-year-old's plans that evening, so I wasn't able to share supper with Grandma. The next morning I awoke to the telephone ringing off the hook. This was strange, because my mom always answered the phone in the barn if it rang during morning chores. I stumbed downstairs and drowsily grunted, "Hello?" It was Mom calling from the barn to tell me to go upstairs with my little sisters, ten and eight at the time, to make sure they wouldn't be frightened when they heard the ambulance siren coming up our dead-end road. Something was wrong with Grandma. She didn't know anything else at that time, but she assured me that everything would be okay.

The stroke left Grandma paralyzed on her left side and the next week was a flurry of relatives visiting the farm. I had enough time to really thank her for all that she had taught me and to express my love for her that I never had verbally articulated to her until that point. Then, on Sunday morning, when she should have been perched in the front pew of our rural church, Grandma died.

Her funeral and wake were very hard, but a definite time of release and celebration. During the reading of her will, I was numb. This was my first real loss and I wasn't sure what to feel. I was feeling cheated, that's for sure. When I heard my name called, I listened, not knowing what to expect. Along with the beloved white gold watch my grandfather bought for her in the early 1900's, Grandma left me her "I love Grandma" mug and "The Last Supper" that watched over so many suppers and card games. I was ready to deal with her absence from the earth.

Grandma taught me many beliefs about giving to those in need and remembering the value of all that belongs to the earth. Her favorite saying was "When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life in such a manner so that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice." She would be proud...all my tomatoes are already caged for the season and are very strong and healthy. See, Grandma, I was listening.

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