Yesterday was quite the busy compared to the lives of empty unemployment that the boyfriend and I are currently living. We made the three hour round-trip drive to his grandmother's farm.
I always experience mixed emotions every time we make the trip to see his last surving grandparent, his paternal grandmother. I see a lot of parallels. Both of my grandfathers died before I was born. As a second grader, I met my maternal grandmother for the one and only time of my life. She died a year later. My paternal grandmother was the only grandparent with whom I had any relationship. It had its up and downs, much like my grandmother's moods.
The course of our relationship was set by an incident that I cannot even recall occurring when I was three years old. My parents had moved our family the year prior over 600 miles from our extended family. My mother had been diagnosed with cancer and required surgery. My father drove the 1200+ miles to bring his mother to take care of my brother and me. Legend has it that when she came in the door, I threw a fit, complaining that she wasn't my mom, and wouldn't have anything to do with her taking care of me. I stayed on a farm with friends of my father. My only memory of the whole ordeal was when my father came to pick me and bring me home. My grandmother's memory of the affair was not so forgiving. When we'd go to visit her every three or four years, she never conveyed much interest in her eldest granddaughter.
She passed away the summer before my sophomore year of college. Her declining health kept me from mourning her death. A series of small strokes had ravaged her mind to the point that she no longer recognized her own children. What shook me after her death was the realization that in the natural order of things, it would be my aunts, uncles, and parents next.
When I met my boyfriend, both of his grandfathers had long since passed away (though he did get to know them and is nice hearing stories about them.) When we moved back to this area last November, I met both of his grandmothers for the first time. I even went on to spend part of Thanksgiving with each of them. His maternal grandmother was not doing well though. We were woken up on New Year's Day with news of her passing earlier that morning.
I have now gone with the b/f to visit the other grandmother several times at her farm. In many ways, she treats me like a member of the family. She sent back gifts for me at Christmas (I sent her a thank you card back.) She hugs me goodbye. During yesterday's goodbye, she not only told the b/f, "I love you." She said it to me too (It took roughly 6 months of dating for her grandson to say that to me.)
Ah, yes, back to yesterday. The b/f had received word from one of his sisters on Sunday that one of the concrete back walls edging his grandmother's driveway had partially collapsed making the garage inaccessible. The following day, the b/f called his grandmother to make arrangements to go down Tuesday and clear out the debris. She even had him invite me to come down with him for a visit.
When we arrived, the three of us gathered around the kitchen table and spent the next hour catching up. Then the serious work began, the cooking. She had lunch (dinner or supper, I can't remember which one she used) planned. Meatballs and spaghetti, she had been craving them and hated to cook so much food for herself. Pumpkin pie that she made at 3 AM, having woken up to use the restroom and deciding to go ahead and make so it could cool. Salad. Rolls. Deviled eggs.
I love watching this woman cook. Like many women who having been cooking for years, she rarely measures. I personally love cooking without recipes, so I get a kick out watching her. It was made even better by her frequent statement, "I don't know if this is how you do it, but it's how I do it." This was never said out of criticism or meanness, but rather out of apology, making the woman even more precious.
The food turned out fabulous despite all of her modesty and apologies. My second favorite thing about the meal was the salad. I know Miracle Whip claims to be a salad dressing, but until that meal, I had never actually seen it used as a salad dressing. I'm convinced the woman can make anything out of Miracle Whip. I have not only seen the salad usage, but have also witnessed its appearance for cole slaw and deviled eggs. I have also tasted the turkey salad. Granted, none of the uses are original, but she never measures (which I consider particular amazing with deviled eggs.) The best part had to be the meatballs. Oh so tender without sacrificing on flavor. In a wonderful corollary to the meatballs was the sauce. As she was getting ready to open cans of tomato products, the b/f called me into the living room where he quietly forewarned me, "It's not really spaghetti sauce. It's a can of tomato soup and a can of tomato sauce." Sure enough, it was. Not my first choice of a sauce, it grew on me as tasting exactly like SpaghettiOs sauce. Granted, I have always preferred the sauces of Chef Boyardee for my canned pasta, but for sheer amusement, I adored this sauce.
Once assured that we had all had our fill, the meal was finished. The b/f headed outside to tear down and clear what remained of the wall. I helped the grandmother clean up as much as she would allow. We then headed out to see how the work was proceeding. I made my way down to help the b/f despite the g/m's protests that I shouldn't lift those heavy concrete blocks. I didn't think I should lift them either so I started to take care of the fragments of the broken blocks, still to her protest. I loved the woman even more for insisting that her grandson do all the manual labor. Despite such consideration, I knew I could handle to work and wanted to make myself useful for both their sakes. It was a good thing I helped speed up the progress because it started to drizzle. She tried to get me to go in, but I joked that since I wasn't a witch, I was pretty confident that I wouldn't melt. She chuckled, and I went back to work. The whole project took roughly ninety minutes to complete. God love that lady, she stayed out with us the entire time.
We eventually made our way back to the warmth of the kitchen table where we talked for a few more hours. I heard about how her husband, then her fiancc, surprised her upon his return as a POW of WWII. She showed us the matching mother-of-pearl necklace and bracelet that he had brought back from Rome for her. We heard about her travels to Wyoming to visit her sister. She directed so many stories about their extended family to me. There were also the stories that I heard on every visit and stories of things that had happened during previous visits. There were the newspaper clippings and letters that she brought out with each visit. These events brought back so many memories of my own grandmother doing the exact same thing, though during one visit, my grandmother showed my mom and me her toothbrush each morning of our stay.
Of course, walking through the farmhouse itself brings back memories of my own grandmother though I don't remember the farm which was sold when I was still young. The old crocheted knick-knacks in the living room. The packing away of anything that could be useful again someday in either the attic or the store room. The vegetables that were canned longer ago than I care to imagine.
In many ways, it's like getting to known my own grandmother again, but ultimately, spending time with makes me wish that I had the patience to appreciate and get to known my own grandmother and all of my grandparents.
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