Bicker Wisdom

I was raised on a dairy farm just about in the middle of nowhere, Minnesota, by my grandparents on my mother’s side. I was a good, innocent (naïve) Christian little girl. It was the 1960s, the decade of revolution, hippies, assassinations and war, but you wouldn’t have known it by me. I missed all things cultural, countercultural, and pop cultural. We had a few cows, some chickens, and each other, and that’s about it. Our only social life was church, twice on Sunday. Our entertainment life too, as far as that goes. Television was a new idea, but my grandfather wouldn’t have a set in the house. Grandma would have liked one – “for the news,” she said – but she couldn’t talk Grandpa into it. He didn’t even want to watch the baseball games. As far as he was concerned the radio was just fine. “The pictures are better,” he declared, “besides, the cows like to listen to the games while I milk.” But I got an education anyway, in the little Christian school by the church, and eventually even went on to college. I now have an advanced degree from an institution of higher learning that took me many years to earn.

It took me more years though to learn to fully appreciate the wisdom that I gleaned from my grandparents, out there on the farm. It is only now, in my old age, that I begin to really see what it is they taught me. My slowness is perhaps understandable, as their wisdom was well masked behind their constant need to contradict each other in all things. I found it challenging at the time, to try to sort out who was right and who was wrong, and eventually I had to come to the conclusion that they were usually both right, even when they were diametrically opposed to each other. When I finally figured that out it was like a revelation. If Grandpa and Grandma were still alive today I would thank them, even though they would certainly argue about whatever I said. I smile to think that it is in those very arguments that I find wisdom today. It is what I’ve grown to think of as bicker wisdom.

I’ll give you a few examples. One of the first conflicts I remember was when I was quite young. Grandpa, who was often given to broad, blanket statements of dubious substance, one day came out with this gem: “All stories are love stories.” I don’t know what precipitated it, but I remember Grandma’s reply. “That’s ridiculous,” she declared. That was a favorite comeback of hers that always got Grandpa’s goat, so of course he doubled down. “Any tale that’s not a love story is just empty narrative,” he insisted. “An anecdote, maybe, or a fable or something, but it’s not a story.”

“Well, a fable is a story isn’t it?” returned Grandma. “What makes you say such a crazy thing, old man? And in front of the child!” They were never shy about dragging me into it, often as not as if I wasn’t even there. “What’s she to make of all your nonsense? What about the Bible? Every day we read to her from her Story Bible. Now you want to say those aren’t stories? Or are you finding romance there somehow?”

“Of course there’s romance there!” he cried. “Did you forget about Mary and Joseph? And Abraham and Sarah? Or how about Jacob and his two wives? Now that’s a love story!” he crowed. He was often very animated in his arguing, waving his hands around when he got excited. He could raise his voice too, when he wanted to make it clear that only an idiot would disagree. He tended to think that everything he said was “just as obvious as the nose on your face.” When he got going like that there was no stopping him. “Even Adam and Eve, running around the garden buck naked – at least until they got too full of themselves and had to give it up. You can’t get more romantic than that, can you?” But before Grandma could answer he added triumphantly, “Anyway, the whole blooming book is the story of God’s romance with the world, isn’t it? The greatest story ever told!”

Well, even Grandma couldn’t argue with that, I suppose. I’d heard her call it that myself. At least if she had a comeback I don’t remember what it was. She probably walked away muttering to herself, as she so often would, though I’m sure she didn’t accept defeat. I can’t remember either of them ever conceding a point to their opponent. So there was no clear victor either, and I was left to try to sort it out myself, somehow, if possible without taking sides.

Many of their arguments were unwinnable anyway. Like with the old Medieval conundrum about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin – who can say – their conflicts tended to end in stalemate. I think they managed to avoid that particular issue somehow, but there were others that were similarly absurd. Like whether or not the story of Adam and Eve is a myth or something to be taken literally. Grandpa, naturally, was the literalist. “If it didn’t happen that way then why does the Bible say that it happened that way? If it was a myth wouldn’t it say it was a myth?” And Grandma would try to explain about evolution, but it would be like talking to a mule (as she put it). Ears he had, but would not listen, she declared. It mystified me for a long time, that debate, until I learned eventually to just let it go and embrace the realization that they were both probably right in their own way, never mind the obvious contradiction.

But it was many years before the concept of paradox fully got through to me. Perhaps I had an early innate sense of it, but I didn’t know that was what it was until I was in college, I think. It was only my love for both of them – and I think, truly, their obvious love for me and for each other, which I never doubted no matter how they argued – that must somehow have carried me through. In my heart of hearts I knew that they had to both be right somehow, and I learned to accept that on some level, even when I was most confused. You might say I took it on faith. Where did the wisdom for that come from? I don’t know. It stood me in good stead though, I believe, this struggle to embrace conflicting ideas, to learn to see the world from two different directions at once, as I listened carefully to every argument.

I should add however, that it wasn’t all heady philosophical notions or Bible issues that my grandparents argued about. No topic was too low for them, really, no distinction too narrow. I used to dread going to the market with them together, as they would argue about every purchase. In the produce aisle one would pick up an apple and the other would find it too large, too small, or not tasty enough. A melon or banana that one of them liked would be too ripe or not ripe enough for the other. In the grocery department they would argue about name brands, sizes, and price per serving. They agreed that every purchase had to be as economical as possible, but how exactly to figure which was cheaper was an impossible task, as even math was up for debate. In the bakery department it was all about freshness. I thought sometimes they might argue until every loaf of bread there had gone stale. If at all possible I would try to get them to go shopping separately, but that would only put off the argument until they got home. They just couldn’t approve of each other’s choices.

At least at the store though, they were pretty good about keeping their voices down. At home it was another story. I would hear them in every room of the house. In the kitchen, in the bedroom behind a closed door – you could hear them from anywhere. Even in the bathroom. If one was taking a shower the other would probably be right in there with them shouting through the mist. Or, like as not, yelling through the closed door. If it wasn’t about shampoo, it was about toothpaste or deodorant. I learned to see that there was no right or wrong to most of these things, and I have to say that some days I wearied of it all.

A common bone of contention was the time, as even their clocks rarely agreed. One or the other always seemed to think we would be late for church. If Grandpa’s watch said we were running out of time, Grandma’s said we had plenty of time, and vice versa. They both hated the idea of being late, I guess, but I can’t honestly remember ever being late anywhere, especially to church. Neither of them could live with the idea of walking in after the pastor was already in the pulpit.

Still, even with nothing at all at stake, no assertion from one ever passed without some kind of contradiction from the other. They didn’t even need a topic, I think. An argument could begin with a glance or a gesture. Even a sigh. I remember one time my grandpa was sitting at the dining room table and sighing. I think now it must have been the day that the old Plymouth finally died, and Grandpa was sad. He really loved that car. Well, Grandma wasn’t having any of it.

“What are you sighing about there, old man?” she said.

“Cars,” was his soft reply. I don’t think he felt much like arguing for a change, as he sat with his evening coffee, but Grandma was not about to let such a controversial thing as sighing about a car go by without a fight.

“Well, what about them?” she insisted.

He paused. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em, I guess,” declared Grandpa, apparently of two minds about something on his own, before Grandma could even get a word in.

“Well, get over it,” she directed. She was a big one for getting over things on command. “You’re sighing over there like an old horse.” Grandma was standing in the door to the kitchen, drying something or polishing something with a towel. She seldom sat down to discuss anything.

Grandpa looked up. “Well, I miss our old horses.”

“What? You’d rather be hitching up horses than driving a car?”

“At least they were always there and happy to see me.”

Grandma just shook her head. “Horses yet. I don’t remember you being so fond of them back in the day.”

“I was fond of them.”

She scoffed.

“I was!”

“Probably because you’re half horse yourself.”

“That’s it,” he agreed, in a rare twist. “That’s me. An old horse.” But he said it with a hint of sarcasm, shaking his head.

“Huh,” she grunted, “if you were, maybe we could get some work out of you around here.”

“I worked on that car all day!”

“And what did you accomplish?” Grandma demanded. “Nothing. That’s what. I’ve been telling you for years that it’s time to trade that old thing in!”

“We haven’t got the money!”

“Of course we haven’t got the money! You put every nickel we see into trying to repair that old rattletrap!”

And on and on it would go. They could go at it for hours, bickering their lives away. But I learned something that day about money and cars at least. I’ve often had to weigh for myself whether or not it was worth it to fix up an old car, or to cut my losses and trade it in for something newer, and I always hear both my grandparents’ voices in my head. Well, I hear their voices over anything to do with money, actually. Money was a favorite theme for raised voices, as it is in many households, I suppose. We never seemed to have enough, even though we always seemed to have what we needed. It seems petty now, in hindsight.

But they could argue about important things too, and those are the things I remember most. Or semi-important things, anyway, like the issue about love stories. That one has stayed with me, and I’ve thought about it often. Another time, a Sunday morning in summer, Grandpa, having milked the cows and taken his shower, came down to breakfast in his robe and slippers and announced he wasn’t going to go to church that day.

“Nonsense,” my grandma declared, before even asking why. “You’re not sick.” The only legitimate reason, ever, for missing church was illness.

“I’m sick of church,” was Grandpa’s complaint.

Grandma snorted. They were always snorting at each other, by way of disagreeing.

“It’s the truth!” Grandpa insisted. “I’m sick of young men in suits parading their little college educations in front of everybody, yelling at us about things none of them understand at all. It makes me ill. If I go to church this morning I might throw up right in the pew.”

“Well you’d better get over it quick, old man, because we leave in twenty minutes. You should know better. ‘Sick of church’ indeed,” she groused. Grandma was busy with something at the sink, but Grandpa wasn’t moving or answering, so she had to stop what she was doing and turn around to look him in the eye. I’ll never forget the little speech she gave him. She didn’t raise her voice, but she was firm. “Not everything is about you, you know. We don’t go to church to make you happy. It’s just the right thing to do, that’s all. We want to stand up with our fellow Christians, say the creed, and sing a few songs. What’s so hard about that? And we want to set an example for the young, don’t we? That alone is reason enough. What’s your granddaughter supposed to think of you whining about young men in suits? Pastor Dave spends all week writing his sermon, then gets up there in that pulpit and preaches the gospel, doesn’t he? And what have you ever done but complain about it? It’s no harm to you. All you have to do is sit and listen.”

When Grandpa still didn’t respond she ended with a statement that brooked no denial, “Anyway, young as he is, he does his best, so you’d better too. Now eat those eggs while they’re still warm, and go get dressed.”

I think he did. Anyway, I don’t think any of us ever missed church unless we were really sick. And I think I would remember if Grandpa ever threw up in the pew. But I do remember thinking they were both right about church in their own way. Some days now even I feel just like Grandpa about the young men who stand up to lecture us, but I think of Grandma’s arguments, and rarely skip a Sunday. I sit in my usual pew and listen as best I can to whatever the latest theological cowboy is pawning off as original thought that day. If it gets too boring I sort of tune him out and think back to some of the bicker wisdom I’ve retained.

I recall one argument about chairs, for some reason. Maybe because I still have the chair that started it. Grandpa could make anything, I think, out in his workshop, and one day he made a chair and brought it in the house.

“Now what is that?” said Grandma when she saw it. It was a simple, sturdy straight-backed chair, painted white.

“Why, it’s a chair, of course,” returned Grandpa defensively.

“Well, I can see that, can’t I?” said Grandma. “Where did it come from? What’s it doing in my kitchen?”

“I just built it!” explained Grandpa. “Out in the shed. I thought it would go nice in the parlor, and we could pull it up to the table when company comes.”

Grandma didn’t like it though. Not then and not ever, I think. She had her own ideas about what chairs should look like and what they ought to provide by way of comfort, and that chair did not fill the bill – and she told him so. She wouldn’t even try it out. I don’t believe I ever saw her sit on it in all the years it stood in the parlor, and she certainly wasn’t going to sit on it there in her kitchen. She could tell by looking at it that it wouldn’t be comfortable.

“Well, I didn’t build it for comfort!” said Grandpa. “What does comfort have to do with anything?” He paused. “And since when do you care about comfort anyway?” he snorted. Then, half whispering in my direction, “I’ve never seen her comfortable in my life.” When Grandma didn’t answer, but just turned back to the sink, he went on. “Well, I didn’t build it for you, did I? I built it for sitting on!” And he sat right down on it there in the kitchen, like he was going to stay put until Jesus comes back.

“Not there, you’re not going to sit on it,” warned Grandma without turning around. “Get it out of my kitchen before I throw it in the burn barrel. Put it in the chicken coop, maybe the hens will like it!”

Grandpa took it down the hall and set it in the corner of the parlor, and there it stayed until I sold the house last fall. Now it sits in my spare bedroom, where guests can at least throw clothes over it. I have to admit that it’s not a terribly attractive piece of furniture, and it’s certainly not very comfortable, so I rarely sit on it, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It reminds me of Grandpa, for one thing. And it reminds me of the philosophical question about chairs. What is a chair for, and how comfortable does it need to be anyway?

I don’t know, but I was telling Katie about these questions the other day when I met her at the art museum downtown. As we wandered around together I began to notice all the different chairs in the various exhibits. They had some Frank Lloyd Wright gems, for instance, that looked great, but didn’t look very comfortable, with their ramrod straight backs. Then we saw some old ceremonial chairs from somewhere in Africa that looked virtually unusable. We stopped to look at a Ming Dynasty chair from China that may have been more comfortable, but looked fragile, and not something to sit on for very long in any case. There were a number of European chairs too, French maybe, then some “Modern” ones, but nothing looked like anything Grandma would have approved of. Katie’s only observation was that there was probably a reason that there was no “Lay-Z-Boy Recliner” in view, and I had to agree. Maybe Grandpa was right and comfort was overrated. I don’t suppose either of them would have been too impressed with the lot, but they would have argued with each other about them anyway. They had a standing commitment to argue, it seemed, even if they agreed on something.

Sometimes I was the one who started the argument. Not intentionally, of course. I learned early that to ask any question or bring up any issue was to start something, so I was always cautious, but I didn’t think Grandma was in earshot one day when I asked Grandpa why we weren’t rich. I don’t remember what put such a question into my head, but there it was. Without looking up from whatever he was working on he said, “I like being fat too much. If you’re rich you can’t be fat.”

“Grandpa!” I exclaimed. “You’re not fat!”

“Sure I am. I’m twenty pounds overweight. Just ask any rich person.”

“Really?” It was hard to know when Grandpa was kidding sometimes. “But I don’t know any rich people, do I?”

“Well, consider yourself lucky, kid.”

“C’mon, Grandpa,” I persisted, “tell me the truth. Don’t you want to be rich?”

“I can’t afford to be rich,” he answered this time, confusing me even further. But by now Grandma must have overheard us. I heard her snort from the next room.

Grandpa went on though, “Rich people have too many enemies, and enemies are a lot of work. You end up living your life looking over your shoulder. I get a crick in my neck just thinking about it.”

With that, Grandma apparently had had enough. “Stop putting such strange ideas into that little girl’s head. Tell her the plain truth,” she hollered, “you’re too lazy to be rich!”

“I work hard enough,” Grandpa declared, though not loudly.

“Huh. Not hard enough to be rich,” insisted Grandma.

“If I was rich I’d have to buy special diet food in order to lose twenty pounds. I can’t afford such refinement.” And on and on they would argue, often in a circle like that, never getting anywhere.

I used to think they just never heard each other, but now I wonder. How much of their bickering was for my benefit, consciously or subconsciously? Or maybe for their own amusement in some way? They never really seemed mad at each other. Or almost never. They actually seemed to enjoy arguing most of the time.

One memorable time they even made each other laugh, I think because they recognized the absurdity of their arguments. This one was over the price of gas. There were two service stations (as we used to call them, back when they offered services) on the corner in town, across the street from each other. They usually posted identical prices, but occasionally one would be one cent per gallon cheaper than the other. Thirty-two cents verses thirty-three cents or something. It’s even more absurd in hind sight, given the price of gas these days, isn’t it? Anyway, Grandpa always insisted on getting the more “expensive” gas on account of a friend who worked there and, he claimed, always gave him a deal on parts to fix his car. It drove Grandma right up the wall, all that wasted money for gas “when you can get it for a penny cheaper right across the street!” Well, one day on our way into town they were arguing about it for the hundredth time when Grandpa added a new twist to his logic. “Besides,” he said, “it’s closer. I save gas by driving to the closest one.” And Grandma couldn’t help smiling. In a minute we were all laughing.

I’m laughing now just thinking about it. Most of my memories are good these days, even though I know that as a child I would sometimes be upset by their bickering. My grandparents were good and loving people. And wise.