Roots, part 4

Great Aunt Lakie loved my mom's name because it was the name of a real-life princess. Mom never went by Meg or Maggie or anything except for Margaret or Margaret Rose.
My mom's mother, Grandma Smith, told me more than once that mom was, "as independent as a hog on ice," which is a typical vivid saying from Grandma.
My mom was born and raised on a wheat and cattle farm in eastern Colorado. It's a wonder, really, why God decided to place her in a farming family. She doesn't like to sweat and I don't remember her doing much physical work except for cleaning and organizing. (But if cleaning and organizing was an Olympic event, she would win it hands-down every four years for decades, then become a coach for the U.S. She is that amazing.) Mom said the few times she tried to help Grandpa on the farm, it usually ended with Grandpa saying, "Margaret, go to the house."

Mom's house was always immaculate. Always. When my sister and I were older she would work all day doing administrative things at her job then come home to us asking her what she was making for dinner before she had her coat off. She made down-home food and it was always good--she even made left-overs taste good.
On the weekends she did everybody's laundry. She even ironed our jeans. Everything she did was neat and organized and I learned how to work hard by watching Mom. That is a huge gift.
Mom has a gift of discernment and wisdom along with her administrative gift. She can "read" people well and is usually spot-on. Truly, I should have listened to her more, but the independent-as-a-hog-on-ice thing didn't skip a generation.
The greatest thing about Mom is that she loves her children and grandchildren with all of her heart. She has always done her very best for us and her best is pretty darn good. She has shown me what it is to be a mother. I know I get my strong mothering instinct from her and I am ever so grateful for it especially when I see so many younger people struggle in this area because it has not been modeled for them. I am so grateful to Mom for that.
Mom was and always is a lady. She oozes dignity and decorum. And she has a good sense of humor which she has taught me is something truly important.
I use some of Mom's saying often. My favorites are, "It's the little things in life" and "You get what you pay for." It turns out that Mom was right about a lot of things. I am sincerely proud to have a princess and a farmer's daughter for a mother. I love her with all of my heart.

Roots 3

My dad is unforgettable. He is just himself. He tells it like it is with plenty of spice, and yet, he has the heart of a poet.
Don't get me wrong, he did try to hit a squirrel with a 9-foot pole two summers ago because of his loathing of the city dwellers, but I've seen him tear up when we were visiting my then 90+-year-old grandmother. He saw the woman he used to know (his ex-mother-in-law) who once had all the energy and spunk in the world using a walker and needing help to get to the bathroom.
He told me a story of when he was a young man working in a nursing home. There was a grouchy old man who didn't want anybody else to move him except Dad and no wonder. Dad would quickly pick him up and matter-of-factly fold his legs in a sitting position before lowering him in his wheelchair. The poor old man hurt when he was handled without the firm, quick movements that Dad made.
There was another time he was working in a parking garage in Denver. There was a stray dog who got himself stuck in the ticket exit area of the garage. The dog was scared, and, of course, put up a fight when Dad tried to get him out of the situation. So Dad grabbed him with one arm and and grabbed his snout with the other hand so the dog wouldn't bite. As he was taking the dog out of the parking garage a woman stopped her car and stared at him appalled at his treatment of the dog. The woman just didn't know the whole story, that's all.
When Dad was a boy he worked in the sugar beet fields with his father and brothers. They all worked very hard. He told me that he won't eat green sweet peppers to this day because one hot summer day he was so hungry while working in the field, he ate green peppers until he was sick. He told me he used to walk along the river and look for a stone that was perfectly round, but he never found one.
He used to take my little sister and me to visit my great grandfather, my grandmother, and other members of his family before and after he and my mom were divorced. All of his life he has showed me how to respect and honor older people. That is a gift.
I appreciate the way Dad has always respected me as an adult even when I was a stupid 21-year-old. (I was an adult, I just wasn't acting like it.)
Dad curses like a sailor, still flies into a rage when he can't find something he is looking for, but he is the most genuine Christian I know. There is nothing religious about his love for Jesus.
If you have ever listened to the lyrics to "Oh How He Loves Us" (Jesus Culture edition), there is a phrase that says, "So heaven meets earth like a sloppy wet kiss; And my heart turns violently inside of my chest; I don't have time to maintain these regrets; when I think about the way; He loves us, O, how He loves us!" The song is talking about the heart of the Father and of Jesus for us. One time I was listening to the song and the phrase "sloppy wet kiss" reminded me of how obnoxious Dad's kisses on our cheeks were when we visited him. He gave us sloppy wet kisses to show how much he loved us. That was also a gift because it also showed me how affectionate God's love is for me. I got a 2-for-1 revelation on the love of a (F)father that day.
I love talking about the Word of God with Dad. I'm pretty sure I got my idealist and poetic bent from him. He is real and he is just himself.

Roots, part 2

My last post was about my paternal great grandfather. This time I'm writing about my maternal grandmother.
Rosabelle Smith was about four foot eight or nine inches tall towards the end of her life. She probably didn't clear much over five feet when she was a younger woman. She had laughing blue eyes, silver-gray short hair which I remember was mostly wind-blown from working outdoors on the family farm in eastern Colorado.
She took me to Sunday School when my sister and I visited her during the summer. Grandma let me take the communion grape juice and bread. She even let me put money in the offering plate. I don't remember any sermons or Sunday School stories, but I knew God and Jesus was important to Grandma. Since Grandma was one of the best people on the planet to me (and to all of her grandchildren) I knew God, Jesus, Bible stories, and church were important.
She didn't preach to me, but she told me stories. I often asked her about what it was like when she was growing up. I asked her about the times, her family, and her life from when I was pretty young up through adulthood. She had a nontraditional (for that time) childhood. Her mother and father were divorced. Her mother was a school teacher. Grandma lived with her mother's parents for quite a while. She took care of her own grandfather after he had a stroke when she was a girl. She was scrappy and made sure the town bully didn't tease or beat up her older brother.

Grandma went to high school which was unusual in the 1930's in the area of Iowa in which they lived. She had to board with different families as she was completing school. She would work for the families for her room and board. She told me you don't know hard work until you wash denim overalls on a scrub board. I believed her.

One summer, Grandma went to stay with her Aunt Lakie. (Yes, that was her real name. She also had an Aunt Nank and an Uncle Ap. I thought they had some pretty interesting names back then!) That summer she met my grandfather, Arden Smith, who was from Smith Center, Kansas. He was working on Aunt Lakie's farm. After many years and plenty of hard work, Grandma and Grandpa Smith eventually owned that same farm.

The Farm, as we all call it, is full of a thousand memories for my mom, aunts, uncles, cousins, sister, and me. To the grandkids and great grandkids, and so many of the people Grandma and Grandpa loved, the memories are all golden. As more and more years go by, The Farm takes on more stellar qualities. I think if Grandma Smith could read this she would make a quick matter-of-fact comment along the lines of, "I bet heaven doesn't have weeds or goat heads*."

At Grandma's funeral, the preacher spoke about how much Grandma loved people, especially the ones who were difficult to love or who didn't have anybody to love them. At the end of the service, the preacher challenged us to go out and be like Grandma to others. After watching her for so many years sincerely accepting and loving all who God brought into her life, I thought what a high call that would be. When it really comes down to it, she treated me like Jesus would have treated me and has treated me. I still miss her, but I am looking forward to partying with my grandma at the Feast of the Lamb of God either when He comes again or when it's time for me to go Home.

*Goat heads are small, spiky thorns that are excruciating to step on. We learned quickly to always wear shoes when you were on The Farm.

Writing Challenge-- it's on?!

I'm sore afraid...and a little excited. The Daily Post's Writing Challenge for this week is "roots." Funny thing. I called my dad the other day. I asked him about his grandfather, Pedro Landin. We called him Gramps. He was born in Mexico and left that country for this one. Since he was a man of very few words, so I hear, we know that he probably walked to Colorado from Mexico. Somebody in the family asked him why he left. He said with typical brevity, "Nothing to eat."
Back in what I ironically think were simpler times, "tramps" would come to Gramps's house asking for food. Grandma made them pinto bean sandwiches, but she didn't much like doing it. Gramps told her if it wasn't for the tramps when he was walking from Mexico to Colorado sharing their food with him, he wouldn't have made it.
When World War I came around, Gramps thought since he was living in the U.S., he should join the military and do his part. His time in the military earned him citizenship.
I knew him when he was in his eighties. I was pretty young then. Gramps would show Dad the vegetables growing in his garden. The garden took up most of his yard. I remember him playing his guitar and singing in Spanish in his tiny living room. He made the best homemade tortillas and the hottest green chile! When it was time to leave, Gramps would give my sister and me a silver dollar from the kitchen hutch and a warm tortilla with butter and salt.
His house was between a street and the railroad yard, he owned his home, was a citizen of the United States, had a pension, and had plenty to eat. I remember him as a kind, gentle man.