Meaningful Lives

Remembering my grandmothers usually brings to mind crocheting, knitting, hooking, (rugs), quilting, canning, ceramics, painting, sewing, needlepoint and the like. Both of them were born in the mid to late 1890s. My maternal grandmother was skilled at painting ceramics and china, and oil painting. She favored landscapes and flowers, and occasionally depicted different kinds of birds. When refreshing the flowers at the cemetery where she is buried, it is my habit to include a small bird within the bouquet placed there for her. For some reason, it pleases me to think that it would have made her happy. My paternal grandmother made delicious pear preserves, crocheted beautiful and useful items, and gardened. Her camellias were the talk of the neighborhood, as were her rose gardens. She sewed, and made delicate fine cotton doilies with intricate patterns. Her sparkling bright blue eyes and halo of fine white hair are still in my memory so clearly, and though crocheting isn’t one of my talents, her needles still are safely in my possession.

These women took care of so many people. It is doubtful that either of them ever thought of having a manicure or pedicure. Their husbands probably never had the thought of going into the kitchen to prepare food for themselves . . . it was women’s work, not their domain. By the same token, the men took care of the repairs, the vehicles, the animals, and worked to earn the money to run the household. It was the way of things, no one thought anyone was shirking a duty when sticking to responsibilities understood to be theirs. Hunting, fishing, cleaning game, taking care of the guns and ammunition and the lawn were in the male domain, though many women who were left alone learned to accomplish these chores and did them without complaint.

One arose at first light or before, and began organizing the day so that others could eat, go out to work or school, the animals could be fed and watered and the garden weeded, before the heat became too high. Clothes were washed in wringer washers, and it was definitely a bit of work to get laundry done and hang out the clothes to dry, using wooden clothespins, on lines stretching across the yard beside the house. When bringing in the crisp, dry clothes, one had to check carefully so that a wasp or hornet would not be folded within the fabric, and cause an unwelcome and painful surprise. No dryer of today nor any dryer sheet, replete with artificial flower or ‘springtime’ scents, can ever match that fresh, clean scent from sun-dried clothes on the line.

On Sunday, everyone in the house attended Sunday school, morning church service, and evening services. When there was a visiting minister at the church, the ladies took turns providing dinner (which was the noon meal) for the visitor and family. It was a matter of pride to prepare the best dishes, and whatever culinary specialty the ladies claimed, for these dinners. Pork chops, sweet potatoes, roast beef baked in a slow oven with fresh potatoes and carrots from the garden; perfect tomatoes, onions and peppers, green beans and squash, with at least two pies and a cake for dessert. Steaming cornbread with fresh butter, yeast rolls. Pecan, apple, peach, chocolate and lemon meringue pies, coconut, peppermint and banana cake, and homemade boiled custard if it happened to be near Christmas or Thanksgiving. Whisky, usually placed on the table in a small crystal pitcher for ‘flavoring’ in the boiled custard, was notably absent at these church dinners.

The family was the central focus, the home its setting. Seamless in its place of priority for all who belonged, there was no question of challenging its integrity or importance. Everyone just knew. No one expected to be thanked for doing their job. The doing was enough . . . all effort had its own reward. They were doing what needed to done, taking care of their lives and the lives of those with whom they had become connected. My maternal grandmother lived to the late 1970s, and my dad’s mother the early 1980s. During those years, we thought they would be with us forever . . . we gave no thought to losing them. It was a simple time, almost like a dream. Until we arrived at middle age, some of these treasures didn’t surface in our memories. Frequently now, a comfortable feeling of quiet gratefulness floats into mind . . . remembering how quietly these women lived their lives, with dignity, unusual mindfulness and meaning.