The bitter with the sweet

An homage to my grandmother is in order this time of year as it was she who taught me how to cook, how to preserve foods, though no one does that these days. She inspired my love of quilts which are nothing more than a story weaved of new and used fabrics that once clothed and warmed her family. It was the gardens of my Grandfather that inspired my love of horticulture. The long drive way to their home was punctuated with iris, prized gladiolus and dalias each summer. And yes, there were tractor tires on the lawn, freshly painted each spring filled to overflowing with annuals.

They lived through the depression and did not waste anything, reuse and recycled every thing. Most of the furnishings were antiques that Gramps loving restored. These were intended to be passed down to future generations of the clan. As a child, I recall visiting during August heatwaves when fields were punctuated with golden grains as far as you could see. Cows and chickens grazed leisurely on green grass alongside the listing red barn. We would have to navigate through the pasture filled with cow pies to reach our special destination. My father, brother, sister and I fished with Gramps at a pond he built and stocked with fish. Imagine sitting on the bank with a bamboo fishing pole and the red & white bobber that let you know a fish was nibbling at the bait like something out of Tom Sawyer. I recall riding in the blue pickup truck to visit friends with them. If we behaved we might get a treat of those red and white peppermints that were stashed in the glovebox. Sometimes it was freshy made carmel popcorn and home made rootbeer or ice cream. Ah the smell of a busy kitchen can take me back to these childhood rememberances. Whenever I go to Lancaster Pa., it feels like home.

This week marks the anniversary of the passing of my Gran who left this world in her 93rd year. She would be 96 now and I so hoped that she would make the 100 mark. Her parting words were that you must take the "bitter with the sweet." Some thought her to be hard and cynical but the woman I know was loving and gentle, albeit sometimes strict. I could barely get my arms around her for a hug and rememeber spending hours brushing her long silver hair.
I still miss her and the pastoral serenity of the life that no longer exists.

When next I visit Ohio, I wonder if the view will be that of a housing development or a strip mall on the 48 acres that once were the family farm my Grandfather built. Life seems so different now but what a wonderful time it was to be a child on the farm.