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.