Sunday, April 17, 2016

Grandmother Pearl

When my mother gets mad at me, she often says, "You're just like your grandmother Pearl!"  Well, when she *used* to get mad at me; she doesn't so much anymore.  My dad's mother, Grandmother Pearl, lived into her 90s.  Her husband was killed in a car accident coming home from his job on the railroad in 1947, I think.  She died in 1982, so for many years she was a widow, and before that, she was alone much of the time while he worked.  She raised four boys pretty much by herself much of the time.

She was a fiercely independent woman.  I can remember an old reel to reel motion picture of her coming around the house with a shotgun crooked in her arm.  She didn't flinch at shooting any snake in the head; I'm quite sure she was a good aim.  She never learned to drive; she depended on relatives and friends to take her where she needed to go.

My grandmother was not the sweet type to cuddle and let us climb into her lap; at least, I certainly don't remember that.  I feared her, or perhaps it is more correct to say I had a healthy respect for her.  She was a fierce Scrabble player.  Because she did the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, she possessed a vast vocabulary.  I finally learned not to question her on words.  When I did, a smug look crept over her face as she slid the dictionary over to me.  Yep, she was invariably right.

I have thought a lot about her lately as I find myself becoming more like her in my "old age."  Today, I went to Lowe's and loaded 39 stones and the bags of lava rock for my DIY fire pit.  I overhead an "older" woman nearby tell her husband she wanted to stick around and see me push that cart.  She didn't think I could do it; she actually told him she knew I'd have to get help.  Well, in Grandmother Pearl fashion, I loaded each of them by myself, skinning my fingers several times during the course of the afternoon.  I pushed that flatbed cart to the check-out line.  The cashier asked if I needed help getting it to my truck; I said incredulously, "I pushed it up here myself, so I can get it to the truck myself."  People behind me snickered.  Well, I did.  When I got to my truck, a kind man next to me started helping me load them; I graciously took his help.  When I got home, I backed that truck up to the gate and unloaded them in my wheelbarrow.  The result is below:

I'm not sure I will ever carry a gun or kill a snake, but I am becoming more independent like Grandmother.  It becomes a necessity to do for myself what I am physically capable of doing.  I think she would be proud of me.

Monday, April 11, 2016

God's in the Details

There is a saying, "The devil is in the details."  I beg to differ; God is in the details.  While I don't qualify as a widow or orphan as the Bible says, God is taking care of me.  I have some minor home repairs that I have put off having done because whom can I trust to come and do them correctly without costing me an arm and a leg?

About a month ago, He put it in my head:  your brother, Ginger.  My brother is on disability because of severe COPD.  He can no longer pressure wash my house (that will have to wait), but he can change ceiling light bulbs, clean bathroom vents, and fix kitchen cabinet molding that has fallen and shifted. 

God is in the details, and I am so glad I can pay my brother to do these minor repairs.