Lula

My grandma Lula lived about 20 miles from us and a highlight of my childhood was visiting her. In my opinion then, and still today, she was the ideal grandma. It was a privilege to get up at dawn and get into my dad’s truck, carrying my little suitcase, ready to go to grandma’s house. The smells of the drive, when I encounter them today, are what bring to mind the sharpest memories: the Juicy Fruit gum that my dad chewed when he gave up cigarettes, the thermos of coffee with milk that he somehow poured while driving, without spilling, and the smells of all things heavy equipment mechanic. It seemed a long drive to me, as those things do when you’re young. I was fascinated with the mug of steaming coffee that dad placed on the console in the middle of the pickup floor, one without cup holders. I loved watching the morning brighten as we drove west and was only distracted from the awakening day by my fascination with that cup of coffee that rarely ever spilled..

Somehow, grandma was always out front, waiting for me. And this was way before cell phones. I took this to mean that she was excited to see me. I was certainly happy to see her!

My grandma was born in 1900 in Missouri. She was married in New Mexico and eventually moved with her husband and 4 children to the Pacific Northwest. They arrived in Oregon when my dad, the youngest, was 8 years old. I don’t know a lot about my grandma’s life, she didn’t really talk about herself, but I have gleaned things over the years from my mom and my older siblings, and a little from my dad. My grandfather and eventually my dad and both of his brothers, were loggers. Dad’s father was an alcoholic and prone to becoming physically abusive. He beat his wife and children. I never knew this man as he died a few years before I was born. There are very few pictures of him, so mostly I am left to imagine. Somehow, in spite of poverty, abuse and loss, grandma remained one of the kindest, gentlest people I’ve known.

Visits to grandma’s were pretty idyllic. I certainly liked a few days free of chores! Grandma had never gotten a driver’s license so didn’t own a car. Fortunately she lived in a small town where everything was in walking distance. A highlight of each day was walking, hand in hand, to the grocers where I was allowed to choose whatever I wanted (within reason, I’m sure) to eat for lunch. The flip side to this was I had to eat whatever was given to me for dinner, again within reason. I usually chose, Spaghetti-O’s, Chef-Boy-Ardee canned ravioli, or canned tamales; treats because we usually had home cooked food at home. Those were my favorites and my choices rarely varied. Oh, and chocolate pudding. Grandma would let me choose a box of the pudding mix and it was my “job” to later stand on a chair at the table and – using old-fashioned “egg-beaters”- combine the pudding mix with 2 cups of milk, and beat for what seemed a very long time until the pudding became thick and glossy. Grandma never seemed to mind the scatter-shot of drops of pudding across the tabletop and my more than occasional licking of fingers.

A surprisingly favorite pastime during the lazy afternoon was to crouch on grandma’s front porch with a hammer. The goal was to pound in every nail until all were flush with the wood planks. The fun of it was, every blow of the hammer brought several surrounding nails up and into view. Which meant, more nails to pound!

Lula was poor and that is not an exaggeration. On the walls of her small house where the yellowed wallpaper was peeling, old newspapers could be seen beneath. But I never realized she was poor, it was just the way things were and I accepted it with equanimity. After all, grandma didn’t seem bothered by a lack of things that so many regard as essential. When she became unable to live alone and furniture was being moved, her dresser was found to be full of the gifts she had received over the years: slippers and socks, nightgowns and robes, all unused and most in the original packaging.

In her little kitchen sat a wood stove, not the kind used only for heating, but a wood cooking stove. And, other than a 2 burner hot plate, it was what she used for cooking. The skill of making and baking a prefect strawberry-rhubarb pie is not often given the admiration it deserves. You’ll have to take my word for it when I say it was delicious! Warm bathwater was another benefit of the stove. Grandma had a round metal tub and I would sit and watch her (or watch an old Western on TV) while she slowly boiled the water and filled the tub for my bath. The novelty of these kitchen baths made it all the more special.

Grandma was a composter: she would save her empty milk cartons and in them went all the food scraps, which would then be buried out back in the garden. Speaking of the garden, these days, if I happen upon a home grown carrot, the crunch and smell and taste immediately transport me back to grandma’s garden. There were tiny strawberries, surprisingly and incredibly sweet. And there were brightly colored poppies in abundance , as well as bluebells and pansies. Her house may have been modestly adorned, if at all, but she valued the beauty (and provision) of nature and her own yard was proof.

I love to remember Lula, outside in an old threadbare sweater, likely sporting many holes, over top of her “house dress” (I never saw her wear pants even on the coldest winter days), with her broom, sweeping the leaves. I remember her smoothing butter on my hands to remove pine pitch after an afternoon of playing outdoors, and sometimes I needed the butter treatment in my hair! I remember her ration books from World War 2 and the pages filled with tiny blue or red velvety coins. In the third kitchen drawer, lined with a tea towel, was a never-ending supply of Lorna Doone shortbread cookies. She kept her silverware in a wooden box lined with green velvet. I loved the aluminum drinking glasses of various hues that made the ice cold tap water even more thirst quenching. Near the windows in the front room were several healthy red geraniums. I still grow my own every year and remember grandma’s love for this plant and it’s striking yet modest beauty. Grandma had a wringer washing machine and wash day was quite an ordeal, arduous and time consuming.

Somewhere on a shelf- I think it was just over the vinyl covered sofa, sat a box of stories and, what I now see as a time of precious bonding with grandma. I would frequently ask her to show me the contents of the box and listened with rapt attention as she told me story after story about each photo or newspaper article. I never tired of this tradition and I learned many things about family- some, living in far-away places like Texas, whom I didn’t even know. Often, after the stories, I would lay my head in grandma’s lap and she would run her fingers through my hair. At home, there wasn’t much display of affection, or at grandma’s either, and I remember feeling loved and content with this attention.

I don’t think there were any toys at grandma’s, there were a few magazines and maybe a Farmer’s Almanac. We sometimes watched TV- I remember shows like Perry Mason and The Andy Griffith Show, as I sipped a hot cup of Lipton’s Instant Cream-of-Chicken soup. Perhaps none of this sounds exciting, yet I don’t remember ever feeling bored. I wish I could somehow recapture the innocence and the slow-paced pleasures of my time at grandma’s house. I suppose that’s an intention of mine, (sometimes held with open hands because, you know, life) to slow down, to simplify, to have less and enjoy it more.

I loved my grandma dearly. I miss her still. I am truly grateful that she was mine.

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