Memories of Gladys, My Grandmother – Daniel Orey
I loved her house, the way the back door creaked and slammed.
I remember how more often than not you always came in the back door to see her in the kitchen.
I remember how I would be asked to go get wood for her stove.
I remember a big old encyclopedia she had with pictures of Latin America… a girl in parasol standing on an enormous Vitoria Regina lily pad, pictures of Machu Pichu and maybe a pic of Torres del Paine that served as the first seed towards my love of travel and Latin America.
I remember how she would make do with what was in the refrigerator - her sandwiches – red onion or peanut butter and lettuce and miracle whip (that one has stayed with me).
I remember how she would cook even the puniest little fish we caught at the sump and make it seem like a feast.
I remember being fascinated by her wringer washer, and helping her hang out the laundry in the back (I think I got stuck in it once).
I remember getting into her trunk of costumes in the garage attic and dressing up the dog, Snookie, and the drive we all made into town to surprise Aunt Judi’s parents.
I remember having to watch Lawrence Welk (ugh!) on her TV and how everyone knew who was who on that show.
I remember a story she made (wrote?) about money that she glued all the coins onto for my birthday.
I remember her flowers.
I remember the raspberries, and the way you could dig up a carrot, dust it off, run water in the hose over it and eat it right there with her.
I remember her rhubarb pie.
I remember her on her tractor, and how we would take the garbage to the dump with it, on the trailer and the dog following along.
I remember going to get manure for her garden in Uncle Ron’s blue pickup.
I remember helping her in the yard and how we were all terrorized by Hinge the rooster, and how she was attacked by him while I watched, and turned grabbed him and lopped off his head in front of me… I never argued with her after that.
I remember dinners, and laughing and Aunt Laura and Uncle John coming in and joining us all.
I remember how I wanted to live at her house.
I remember how she suffered from pain – hips, hands - but I never once heard her complain or even talk about it.
I remember cousins playing by the creek, and how the big bell by the front of the garage was rung for us to come in.
I remember how she labeled the beef in her freezer by the name of the cow, often named after a political figure, so that people would ask, “Who are we eating now?”
I remember her visiting in San Jose, and playing checkers.
I remember, that not long after she passed away, having a dream, where I woke up to her holding and patting my hands like she used to with her old gnarled hands, and heard her say to me, “it’s ok”.
And most importantly, I remember feeling loved… unconditionally.
The only regret I have is that my son and my husband will never meet her.
Daniel Clark Orey
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Ouro Preto, Minas Gerais, Brasil
I remember how more often than not you always came in the back door to see her in the kitchen.
I remember how I would be asked to go get wood for her stove.
I remember a big old encyclopedia she had with pictures of Latin America… a girl in parasol standing on an enormous Vitoria Regina lily pad, pictures of Machu Pichu and maybe a pic of Torres del Paine that served as the first seed towards my love of travel and Latin America.
I remember how she would make do with what was in the refrigerator - her sandwiches – red onion or peanut butter and lettuce and miracle whip (that one has stayed with me).
I remember how she would cook even the puniest little fish we caught at the sump and make it seem like a feast.
I remember being fascinated by her wringer washer, and helping her hang out the laundry in the back (I think I got stuck in it once).
I remember getting into her trunk of costumes in the garage attic and dressing up the dog, Snookie, and the drive we all made into town to surprise Aunt Judi’s parents.
I remember having to watch Lawrence Welk (ugh!) on her TV and how everyone knew who was who on that show.
I remember a story she made (wrote?) about money that she glued all the coins onto for my birthday.
I remember her flowers.
I remember the raspberries, and the way you could dig up a carrot, dust it off, run water in the hose over it and eat it right there with her.
I remember her rhubarb pie.
I remember her on her tractor, and how we would take the garbage to the dump with it, on the trailer and the dog following along.
I remember going to get manure for her garden in Uncle Ron’s blue pickup.
I remember helping her in the yard and how we were all terrorized by Hinge the rooster, and how she was attacked by him while I watched, and turned grabbed him and lopped off his head in front of me… I never argued with her after that.
I remember dinners, and laughing and Aunt Laura and Uncle John coming in and joining us all.
I remember how I wanted to live at her house.
I remember how she suffered from pain – hips, hands - but I never once heard her complain or even talk about it.
I remember cousins playing by the creek, and how the big bell by the front of the garage was rung for us to come in.
I remember how she labeled the beef in her freezer by the name of the cow, often named after a political figure, so that people would ask, “Who are we eating now?”
I remember her visiting in San Jose, and playing checkers.
I remember, that not long after she passed away, having a dream, where I woke up to her holding and patting my hands like she used to with her old gnarled hands, and heard her say to me, “it’s ok”.
And most importantly, I remember feeling loved… unconditionally.
The only regret I have is that my son and my husband will never meet her.
Daniel Clark Orey
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Ouro Preto, Minas Gerais, Brasil
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