Grandma Survived Hard Times with Tough Love

As a child, it was obvious that my dad loved and admired his mother. She struggled during the depression as a widow raising six children: five boys and a girl, which explains why she didn’t fit the stereotypical image of a grandma who cuddles and spoils her grandchildren. When we visited, the kids played outside and were expected to be seen and not heard — words that were more than an expression at Grandma’s house. I never doubted that she loved us, but hugs and kisses were not freely distributed.

In their home when Dad grew up, recycling was not a trend but a way of life. Clothes were handed down from one child to the next. Leftovers, when there were any, served as the foundation for the next meal. If his mom’s spit didn’t clean dirty faces, scrubbing harder did. Survival meant making do with what they had and not complaining.

A favorite story Dad told more than once shared his admiration for his mother and helped me understand Grandma. The details remind me of the fable, The Little Red Hen. Since the family financially struggled, when the neighbor offered the small plot of land next door for grandma to plant a garden, she readily accepted.

Grandma tilled the ground, planted the seeds, water and weeded as the seedlings grew. The garden provided hope and food for her children. However, when the neighbor saw the garden in all its glory, he announced that since the garden was on his property, he planned to reap the rewards and pick the vegetables himself. He apparently had never read the fable because he didn’t anticipate Grandma’s response.

I believe this might be the day the expression “mad as a wet hen” emerged and envision grandma, dripping in sweat from exhaustion after chores, disciplining children, and maintaining a full-time job. Her garden produced not only needed food for her family but reflected pride as a result of hard work.

Dad released a full belly laugh when he told how she spit on the ground daring the man to repeat his claim. When the landlord challenged her dare, she hit him with a shovel. In the end she harvested the crop without anymore interference.

When Dad stopped laughing and ended his tale he said, “That garden was hers, by God! I can’t imagine a court in the country that would have found Grandma guilty of a crime.”

I never saw Grandma as a violent woman who had a temper; she was a survivor. She confronted life's challenges head on, with a shovel when necessary. As a child, I didn't understand why she didn't have a candy drawer like my mother's mother, or why the kids played outside and seldom entered her house, but I also didn't seem those facts as obstacles to my love. I knew she loved me by the way she smiled, gathered me in her arms and kissed my forehead.

Once for a class assignment, I was asked to write an essay about a person I respected. The following words filled the paper with my reflections of Grandma several years after her death.

She stands at the window doing the dishes, the years of hard work apparent in each stiff, planned movement. Her actions seem delicate as she carefully washes and rinses each piece of glassware. With a closer look at the large hands performing the chore, I see how clumsy they actually are. The knobs around her knuckles cripple her hands a little more every day with arthritis, and her tan body is spotted with age.

The plump, wrinkled toughness of Grandma portrays the past while the many large wrinkles that cover her face and the smaller ones that encircle her eyes record the years she has known. Her eyes dilate, reflecting the consistent, dull pains, physical discomforts and heart aches. But mixed with the age and suffering is a constant faint smile that shares joy in memories.

As the last cup is put away, the telephone abruptly rings. “Answer the phone. It has rang twice!” The words sound harsh even though it is obvious by the pitch of her voice that she means no harm. The quality is rough as if she has yelled much in the past. Now she speaks softly, only raising her voice to call someone in another room or to laugh.

With a disappointed but thoughtful grin she walks to the phone after the fourth ring, and picks up the receiver. Her pace is slow, another sign of age. Her legs are visible, the calves emerge from beneath her dress, exposing the dark blue veins that are evidence of hours of standing and supporting her plump torso.

Her frame fills every inch of the firmly made cotton dress. The faded blue material with yellowing flowers covers but is not meant to adorn. The snug fit of the dress and its straight, tight seams justify a guess she made it herself. Her daily attire reminds me she still believes it is improper for a lady to wear britches.

As she replaces the receiver, the smile is wider, evidence a grandchild probably shared an event from the day. Worn, practical shoes carry her into the bedroom. She makes down the bed, loosening the tight corners of the heavy blankets so they do not apply additional pressure to her sore limbs. As she changes into her nightgown, she hollers into the other room, “I am calling it a night.”

Sitting at the edge of her bed, with a hand extended to the bedside table, she reaches for a tin box, then proceeds to takes down her hair. Each pin is carefully placed in the tin to assure its presence in the morning. Thin, grey hair that once bounced and curled, now gracefully drapes her neck. The ritual of brushing begins. With a wire brush held together by a wooden handle, she strokes the grey twine. It has been several years since it was blonde but she takes pride in it as she brushes it to a shine each night.

When she lets her hair down around her face the features are enhanced, softened. Emotions usually camouflaged, hidden from potential judgement, covered with a veil of prudence appear for an instant. She no longer looks like a woman living in a world of worries but a grandmother.

These memories remind me of a beautiful woman who modeled the power of determination. Edna Nicolls Marshall provided an example of a powerful woman. In difficult times, people take extreme measures to protect loved ones. Our instincts are to protect ourselves and the ones we love. Everyone interprets the world from their point of view. I imagine the landlord told the story about the garden quite differently than my father remembers it. However, both versions state the reality of the character who is sharing the details.

In a world of challenges as existed in the great depression, through times of war and economic tensions, to struggles that frame our lives today with political and racial discrepancies, we must remember there are different interpretations of every story. However, Grandma's life taught me to base my responses on my values and to stand up to bullies. Tough love creates boundaries not enemies. At the end of the day, it is essential that we show kindness to each other while challenging the problems not each other.

Because we live in a world that continues to get smaller as trials pull us together uniting us in adversity, maybe we should all learn to just spit our words of disagreement on the ground and agree to disagree while knowing sometimes it is necessary to fight for what is right.

The moral of this story –

Treat your neighbor as you would have them treat you.

Oh, and don’t try to take a bone from a dog.