To Ranch Grandma and My Family

Our Ranch Grandma just passed away? I’m in Indonesia and I keep on thinking, “What should I do?” What do people do when they are across the world from the people that can comfort them and that they can comfort? In the last few hours, I’ve been feeling guilt. Guilt for not calling more often, for not re-sending the letters that were lost somewhere between Indonesia and Spearfish in time for her to read them. Guilt for being so far away. But guilt is not what Grandma would want me to feel, I think. Guilt shouldn’t be what I do to fill that empty feeling I have somewhere between my heart and my stomach. I can do something more productive. Less destructive. I can write and fill the emptiness with memories of Ranch Grandma. So that’s why I’m writing. To remember, to do, to be with my family emotionally and mentally, even if I can’t be with them physically. Here are just a few memories I have of Grandma—and of us.

March 12, 2010:

I called the ranch the night before she passed away. Granddad answered and said that Grandma wasn’t feeling well—that she had the flu. I asked him if he was taking good care of her, and he assured me: “I promised to take care of her every day of my life, and I’m still keeping that promise. And besides” he said, “For most of my life, she’s been taking care of me, so now it’s my turn.” Granddad and I, the night before she passed away, talked about his time in Korea during the War, about the angry rooster he saved Uncle Keith from when they were children (which, after the scolding, made some delicious chicken soup), about great-grandchildren, about spinster cousins (we were joking, Amy and Nicole!), about marrying Nate. We talked for an hour or so, and as usual, Granddad, through his stories, shared his memories, making me feel like part of his story—their story—even though I’m so far, far away right now. I didn’t get to talk to Grandma because she was feeling so ill, but I’m sure she was sitting next to Granddad and listening to the same stories as I was, at the same time—and maybe through the sound of Granddad’s voice, we were together. Maybe that’s why we need to tell stories, to share memories, so that in the act of listening together we can live the same story no matter the distance in miles or years. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll share a few of my memories, in no particular order, just as they come to me, of Grandma, Granddad, and the ranch.

Chinese Checkers:

Since we were old enough to understand the rules of the game (and even before that, as little Brett can tell you), every Christmas, Grandma would drop a not-so-subtle hint to her grandchildren as we sprawled, pie-stuffed, in various places around the living room: “Well, I don’t know if anyone is up to a game this year, but…” And that was our cue to get the card table out and hunt down the antique Chinese Checker board—which, unlike newer versions, Grandma always explained—had much deeper holes and real marbles to play with. And we would play. And no matter how young we were, Grandma would show no mercy. This was her game, and we learned the hard way, from the best Chinese Checker player that side of the Missouri. If we complained when she blocked one of our moves, she’d say “I’m sorry, Honey,” but we always knew by her tone that she was really thinking, “All’s fair in Chinese Checkers, Honey…” I still remember the Christmas I beat the master. I was 15. And I don’t think I’ve beaten her since, though we’ve played every year since then. We’ve played for 24 years, every Christmas. Chinese Checkers was always “our” game. Grandma’s and her grandchildren’s game. And I can’t imagine not playing again next year.

Easter:

Easter was always my favorite holiday growing up. I’d get to dress up in Amy’s beautiful hand-me-down dresses, pull on itchy tights, and drive with my family to Newell, where we’d sit in church, next to our cousins and aunts and uncles and Grandma and Granddad, and we’d get to sing songs together. Then we’d all pile into our various cars and we’d head out of town, over gravelly butterfly hills (you know, those hills and dips that always made us lose our stomachs as we crested them) to the ranch. And, after we had taken off our muddy shoes in the porch, we’d pile into the kitchen, where there’d be hundreds of hand-painted, beautifully colored Easter eggs, spread out on the large wooden kitchen table. Each one different, and beautiful. Each one carefully painted and dyed by Ranch Grandma, especially for her grandchildren. And we’d get to choose our eggs, one by one, as Grandma watched, and we’d write our initials on each of our hand-selected eggs—AE, D, TE, AS, TS, N, S, J, CB, CW—in black marker. The aunts and uncles would then spirit our eggs away for a giant Easter egg hunt that pretty much spanned the entire ranch—we would find Grandma’s beautifully painted eggs in the barns, near the silo, inside the shop, under haystacks, and even under cow patties. And there were even the golden eggs—Grandma would wrap plastic eggs in gold foil, and inside there would be money for the lucky winner. After we’d gathered up all of our eggs, we’d sit outside on the tin well-cover and wait for the stragglers to finish, and we’d peel off Grandma’s carefully painted shells to reveal the also somewhat colorful egg whites, and we’d feast on Grandma’s creations.

Grandma’s art made my childhood magical: although the Easter eggs were her projects, I can’t count the number of times we sat at her wooden kitchen table and created things. We painted rocks (yes, we’d go out and hunt up rocks, and come in and paint faces on them); we painted pictures; we cross-stitched; we sketched. Art tied our family together— grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents, grandchildren—and Grandma often acted as our muse.

Dress-up:

Grandma also helped make ordinary days magical for us grandkids. I still remember the many hours us girl cousins (with the occasional little boy thrown in— Todd) would spend trying on the antique finery that grandma had either worn in earlier days or found at auctions for us. When it was decided that it was “dress-up” time, we’d rush to the back bedroom and lay out all of the dresses that had been carefully tucked away in the closet from the last time we’d visited. After some bickering over who got to wear what, we’d don yesterday’s finery— the beautiful bronze prom dress that I coveted for years until it finally fit me, the white wedding dress, and other gauzy creations—that were all too big at first, but, in our eyes, beautiful and grown-up. And then, if we were lucky, we’d sneak into Grandma’s bedroom and sort through her beautiful, sparkly jewelry until we found the perfect piece to complement our dresses. And we’d prance out of Grandma’s and Granddad’s bedroom for a fashion show (I still remember thinking, as I opened the door so that we could commence the fashion show, how perfect Grandma’s crystal doorknob was for the occasion.)

Hunting frogs in Grandma’s shoes:

We also enjoyed less “girly” delights when we visited Grandma. Though it’s pretty fuzzy now, as we were quite young, I remember visiting Grandma and Granddad one muddy day, and hunting frogs. I remember that I borrowed Grandma’s slip-on canvas shoes (they were made of navy blue cloth with white soles and they were pretty big on my little girl feet) because I hadn’t brought “playing outside” shoes. And off to the dam went Grandma, Todd and me to hunt up some frogs. We brought mason jars and little nets of some sort, and I remember that grandma was pretty good at catching the quick little buggers. We brought them home, showed them off, and then released them.

Sledding days, Grandma’s sink, and home-made hot chocolate:

South Dakota winters were long for me, even as a little girl, but Grandma and Granddad’s sledding hill made me forget the cold for a little while. Us cousins, (and aunts and uncles sometimes), would pile into the house, give Grandma and Granddad a kiss, and then we’d bundle up to hit the giant hill. It really was the perfect sledding hill—just enough bumps to make it interesting, a crick to jump at the bottom if we went too far, and most importantly, it was close enough to the house that we could sneak in for some hot chocolate if we got too cold. I remember looking in—sweating and cold at the same time as I’d just clambered up the hill— and seeing Grandma, warm and cozy, leaning across her kitchen sink to watch her grandkids play. (That sink was always a little magical for me. I remember Grandma’s “worry stone,” a perfectly smooth, white, round stone that she kept on the ledge of the window sill, and how much I loved rubbing its smooth surface against my cheek; and the tiny little tea set that she also kept near there, that she let us use on special occasions—for very special little girl tea parties, for instance.) Seeing Grandma at the sink was a reminder that no matter how cold or bruised we were, there was always comfort waiting for us inside the house. I remember the exact cupboard where she kept her homemade hot chocolate, in a large Kemp ice cream container, and I can still taste how delicious it was after a long, hard day of sledding.


Rock and Roll and rabbits:

Every once in a while, we got to stay overnight at Grandma and Granddad’s, which was quite a treat for us “city” kids. We’d have to share the big bed in the back bedroom, and I remember one summer, city kid that I was, being quite terrified at the number of moths that fluttered around any given light source. And I remember, one night, grandma coming to the back bedroom with her vacuum cleaner and sucking up these scary moths so her little city grandkids could fall asleep. And I remember her shutting off the lights and, rather than the country quiet, hearing tinny-sounding voices wafting in, with the breeze, from outside. Strangely, these voices were emanating from her enormous vegetable garden—to keep the rabbits away from her veggies, she’d installed a battery-operated radio. This sound mingles with the sound of crickets, kill-deer birds, and laughter in my memories of the ranch.

Saying goodbye:

As a little girl, I remember as we drove to the ranch hearing Casey Casum (the top 100 radio guy) tell a story on his program: basically, a son and his father got into a terrible fight and the father died before the son could tell him “I love you.” This story really bothered me,(I think I was an overly-sensitive little girl), so I vowed to myself to say “goodbye” and “I love you” to every single one of my loved ones, every single time I left them, from that point on. It started that day at the ranch, and continued for many years after. When mom would tell us it was time to leave, I’d begin making my rounds, hugging and kissing every single person at the family gathering, and telling them “I love you,” just in case. I wouldn’t leave, much to my tired parents’ chagrin, until everyone knew how I felt about them. (Many of you probably remember this.)

Since then, I’ve traveled far, far, far from Grandma and Granddad’s ranch. And right now, I feel like I’ve broken that childhood vow to my family, and to Grandma. When I saw her last Christmas, did I tell her how much I loved her? Did I hug her enough? Did I let Granddad and all of you know how much you meant—and still mean—to me? I guess this letter is my grown-up, far-away way of telling you how much I love you and how much our shared memories with Ranch Grandma mean to me. I wish I could be there right now—I need a hug and could give some hugs too—and I love you.