Ella and Boss
My Agrarian Grandparents of Van Buren County, Iowa
Published by MaryAnna Bentley at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 MaryAnna Bentley
Preface/Disclaimer
This short memoir is for my family and everyone who enjoys reading the memories. It is for those family members who remember my grandparents, but especially for those who never had the pleasure of meeting them. I have put together the stories as I remember them. Please keep in mind that many times nothing is ever really the way we remember it. If you knew these fine people and remember things a bit differently, I totally understand. I only recorded these events as I recalled them. No more, no less. I’ve decided to share this work so that my memories can be enjoyed, not criticized or corrected. So if accuracy is your concern, no need to read further. These memories were written down simply for enjoyment.
Chapter 1: Family Gatherings
Birthdays
Nearly every month, my father’s side of the family would gather for a birthday celebration, with the exception of November and December. (If you had a birthday in one of those months you were expected to celebrate along with the Pilgrims or the Christ Child.) It was these celebrations that developed and matured my sweet tooth. Each family would bring a cake and a half gallon of ice cream to Grandpa and Grandma’s house, which meant four different kinds of cake and four different kinds of ice cream since the grandparents always contributed. There we would gorge ourselves, trying every kind of cake and ice cream available. Butterbrickle ice cream and Grandma’s white cake with hickory nuts were always my favorites, though I never turned down the other options. Seconds were encouraged. After all, we were healthy, growing kids who needed nourishment. I’ll never forget packing into my Grandmother’s two bedroom, approximately eight hundred square foot house along with the other twelve grandchildren, all happy as clams at the proposition of multiple servings of cake and ice cream; nor will I ever understand how she managed to raise three children in that space. But somehow, all twenty-one family members managed to survive in those close quarters for our birthday celebrations. Occasionally, we were more than twenty-one when Grandpa’s sister Daisy would come back from California with her daughter, or his sister Carrie would get a rare urge to participate. Now and then a cousin of my father’s would show up for the festivities. Mostly, though, it was just merely the twenty-one of us!
Escape
During the cold months, birthday celebrations entailed all the grandchildren gathered around the exposed gas stove that heated my grandparents’ house. We often fought over who had the privilege of sitting on top of it. But during warmer weather the activities of the grandchildren stood in stark contrast to the gas stove arguments of the cooler months. Perhaps it was the good weather, or our parents’ need to have a bit of adult conversation without hearing the cries of their thirteen off-spring, that drove us outside during birthday celebrations in milder weather. Whatever it was, we grandchildren found the experience both adventurous and rewarding. There we were in the pitch-black dark on Grandpa’s farm with no supervision but the stars above and the farm dog, Tippy, who found frolicking and playing with thirteen grandchildren to be more interesting than coon-hunting any day. It was in these moments that we would play “Escape.” I was never quite sure of the rules of this game, but I think this was the idea behind it. Two or three of the older grandchildren were the jail keepers, and the younger grandchildren had all escaped from their jail. It was the responsibility of the jail keepers to seek out the jailbirds, so the younger grandchildren had to hide accordingly. At the end of the game, the mothers would holler out towards the barnyard for us to return to the house (that, of course, was the only way the game ever ended). The jail keepers would win if they had more prisoners than escapees, and the prisoners would win if there were more of them on the loose than locked up. Now being one of the younger cousins, I’m not too sure I have the details correct, but I do know this – I, along with other grandchildren under the age of eight, was entrusted to some of the slightly older cousins who would make sure I was kept quiet, and would take me along with them to their great hiding spot. I was never a jail keeper, but that is what happens when you are the tenth of thirteen grandchildren. As the years went by, the older grandchildren drifted off to college and fewer and fewer games of Escape were played, and, sadly, fewer and fewer birthday celebrations were had, until they finally became extinct.
Thanksgiving Eccentricities
Every Thanksgiving Grandma insisted that the family gather once again in that tiny house to eat dinner together. Naturally, there was an adult table and a kids’ table. The adult table was dreadfully boring. I know this from personal experience. Up until about the age of five, I was forced to sit next to my mother at that table. I have no idea what they talked about, but I heard voices similar to that of Charlie Brown’s teacher. I couldn’t wait until the meal was over so I could go play with the big kids. Better yet was when I gained the privilege of eating at the kids’ table. Life was good. Not only did we have a separate table, but we were also in a separate room. The adults had even prepared separate serving bowls filled with the same food of which they were partaking. One particular Thanksgiving, Grandma came into the kids’ room to see if anyone wanted any more of her famous apple salad. This particular salad was made up of diced raw apples, hickory nuts, marshmallows, chopped celery and miracle whip. I always thought that it would be a grand dish if only one left out the celery and the miracle whip and replaced them with chocolate chips and whip cream. Needless to say, it was a family tradition that I was not especially fond of, but my brother thought otherwise. He gladly would take seconds. Of course, Grandma didn’t give him time to ask. She did her usual, “Apple Salad? Yes or no?” and plopped a healthy serving down on his plate. Forgetting he had just asked one of his cousins to pass him more via the kids’ serving bowl, he began merrily eating. My cousin, not to be outdone, gave him a third healthy serving atop his second. The wagers began. Could he eat it all or could he not? My brother was not one to lose money or the opportunity to gain more. The bet was on. He became ten dollars richer that day.
Christmas Generosity
Grandma faithfully decorated for Christmas every year. Packing her handsaw and axe she descended into the timber to find just the right cedar sapling that some bird had planted along a fence row. Charlie Brown had nothing on Grandma. Her pitiful tree could make his look like the prize tree of the White House. In fact, if Charlie Brown’s tree had been near by Grandma’s, the true meaning of Christmas would have totally gone down the tubes as the on-lookers relished in the beauty of Charlie Brown’s tree. Perhaps that’s why we never had our Christmas celebration at Grandma’s house. Instead, the Christmas gathering was rotated between the homes of the three siblings. I’ve never seen such a spread of food in such close quarters anywhere else. No one had a large house, so the twenty-one of us together with a pig, a turkey and all the fixings did make for a tight fit. The twenty pies and sixteen cakes took up some space too, but there was always room for the homemade Christmas candy. The maple drops were my favorite, but the hickory-nut filled fudge ran a close second, followed by the white chocolate covered pretzels. Of course, none of this would hold any importance without Grandpa’s ten-dollar bills. Amazingly, the man who we perceived as the tight wad during the other eleven months of the year, seemed to go through some strange transformation at Christmas time, much like that of the Dr. Seuss’ infamous Grinch. So each year around the holidays, to the great delight of his thirteen grandchildren, he went to the bank, pulled out thirteen new, crisp ten-dollar bills and slid each one into its own holiday money envelope. Most years it came with an orange on the side. We were all delighted. Every year we expected it, and every year he came through. One year an extra child came with my family from my mother’s side of the family. Somehow, Grandpa scrounged up another new ten-dollar bill for her. He gave it to her apologetically, expressing regret that he didn’t have a holiday money envelope to put it in.
The Weenie Roast
It is one of my last sociable memories of my grandfather. He was getting up in years and suddenly realizing that all of his grandchildren were growing up, moving away and leaving the farm life. It was late fall, and most of us were busy harvesting the crops, going to school and preparing for winter. Nevertheless, Grandpa was feeling like a family gathering. He proposed a weenie roast with the excuse that he had cut down some timber that he needed to burn. We all dutifully attended, at least the younger ones who were still at home. As we pulled up in our station wagon, I could see the flames emerging from the ditch across the gravel road from their house. As preteens and teenagers, the cousins were all there reluctantly, only to please Grandpa who needed a nostalgic moment for his memory that would soon fade. It seemed like hours before we could actually eat…the fire was way too hot and ferocious to roast weenies. A time or two during our wait the grass around the bonfire started to catch fire, which at least made things a bit more interesting for us begrudging weenie roasters. However, as I watched my grandfather pour water on the flames, I realized that, in a strange sense, age had turned him from insensitive to ambivalent. It is a memory I will always cherish. As we watched the fire wane that evening, it served as our last true family gathering at the old home place. A memory we wanted locked up forever, never to escape. May the jail keepers win.
Chapter 2: Cookies, Quilts and Bib Overalls
Cookies
Grandma Ella never realized how wonderful she truly was. She was never overly affectionate or complimentary, but always there, a presence we could count on as grandchildren. I was always awed by her skills of cookie-baking and quilt-making. I spent hours with her trying to absorb everything she knew about sewing, crocheting, and baking (though I ate more of her baking than I absorbed her skill of baking). I loved her simple, creative nature and her willingness to leave good enough alone. She knew her cookie recipes by heart. She would throw in the sugar and the “oleo,” as she called the margarine, and then wait patiently while my cousin and I tested the mixture. She would always get a kick out of our insatiable sweet tooths. I was always suspicious that she had one herself, as she remained a bit plumper than the average family member. She would always say she was a keeper…when she gained a pound she kept it. (I think I’m following in her footsteps.) These few extra pounds must be what made her an expert oatmeal cookie-baker since no one else in the family could make oatmeal cookies like hers. My mother asked for the recipe which Grandma happily gave her, but the cookies just weren’t the same. Personally, I think it had something to do with the grandchildren eating a few spoonfuls of sugar and oleo before the product was complete.
Tea Time
Since Grandma lived just two farms away, it was very easy to slip away and spend the afternoon with her. I’d cross the gravel road next to our house, climb the gate to the timber, walk past my father’s collection of nonfunctional used automobiles, stroll past the pond, and wade over the creek, hoping that I didn’t find any cow piles by surprise in that tall grass. Eventually, after climbing the hill beyond the creek, squeezing through the barbwire fence, passing by another pond, and crossing the field, I could see Grandma’s house down the gravel road
just beyond the
highway. Finally, I would arrive safe and sound after twenty minutes
of good, vigorous walking. I usually timed it so I would hit
Grandma’s house at precisely three o’clock…just in time for
“tea time”, the Dutch tradition that Grandpa had inherited from
his first generation parents. Tea time was every child’s dream.
From candy to cake every homemade sweet known to man was present.
Grandma would go to the porch to fetch a fresh glass bottle of 7-UP
or Orange pop for our devouring. She would then get out the pies.
Usually there was more than one to choose from. Once our pie
preference was determined, she’d get out the ice cream. No amount
of caution would be enough to prescribe to Grandma’s ice cream
scooping. It was not the amount, but rather the choice one had to be
wary of. Grandma would hold that round ice cream container in one
hand, the large serving spoon in another, and say, “Ice cream? Yes
or no.” Before I even had the ability to be aware a question had
been asked,
she would have a large scoop of ice cream soundly
placed on my piece of pie. Grandma was a born decision-maker and
greatly enjoyed exercising the skill.
Grandpa’s Family Feud Faction
After tea time we would all reverently gather around the TV set to watch “Family Feud”. To this day, I believe Grandpa belonged to some religious faction which strongly advocated the viewing of eccentric game shows. Watching Family Feud and tea time were the only two things he was ever religious about, other than making a buck, of course. No matter what he was doing, he would make time for these two things. At precisely three o’clock Grandpa would come plundering into the house through the backdoor sporting his favorite outfit…a cotton long-sleeved shirt and bib overalls. He would sit down for tea time, sampling from the array of goodies, and then at the appointed time, move into his chair in the living room to watch Family Feud. Grandpa would hoot every time the game show host kissed one of the ladies. He thought that was wonderful. Heaven help anyone who dared to call him on the telephone during his show or expected a word or two of casual conversation. (We are all very grateful that he never bought a satellite dish. Five days a week was more than enough. There was definitely an upside to his extremely frugal nature.) By the time Family Feud ended it was time for me to go home to do my chores. Somehow, it always took me longer to walk home…perhaps it was tea time.
Quilts
During my childhood, every winter Grandma would make at least one quilt. By the time I was a teenager, she had stitched enough quilts for each grandchild to have one. Our quilt would be our wedding present. As a girl, I would sit and help Grandma stitch her quilts. I loved it. Grandma would encourage me to make small stitches, but I could never come close to the quality of stitches that she produced. She never discouraged my help, but I am suspicious that she removed most of my work once I had left for the day. As the older grandchildren married, she let them pick out their quilts. However, she feared not seeing her younger grandchildren’s wedding day, so one day she decided to let us go ahead and pick out our quilts, oldest to youngest, of course. I loved all of Grandma’s quilts so it really didn’t matter that much to me that I was third from the last to choose. I chose a beautiful orange-tone quilt with splotches of yellow, red, green and blue. It was much like all of her others – a nine patch made from scraps of fabric, depicting Grandma’s creative, simple spirit that I so admired. Despite Grandma’s fears, she did live to see most of us marry. After I married, I told her that I had hung her quilt up above the bed in our bedroom because I loved it so much. She responded to my explanation in a tone of disgust. “You’re suppose to use it,” she admonished. Despite her admonition I still cannot bring myself to use that quilt as an everyday blanket. Every year when I read Alice Walker’s short story entitled, “Everyday Use” with my tenth grader English students, I feel guilty. In Walker’s story the character of Mama views one of her daughters as a high fluting idiot because she wants to hang her grandmother’s quilts instead of use them. I cannot help but worry that grandma must have thought the same of me.
Happy 80th!
Grandpa and Grandma were almost exactly the same age. Only a few months separated their birth. I guess, 1910 was a good year for our family. They were so very different, yet so much alike. They fussed, they feuded, they loved in their own ways, and when they turned 80, Aunt Daisy came from California to help them celebrate a family wedding and their birthday. We all convened at the local community center after one of the cousins got married. It was a humble little building with cheap paneling covering the walls, and 1960s carpeting still gracing the entry. This type of function was its standard use. We used folding tables and chairs for the occasion. The out-dated, simple fixtures of the building seemed to fit its celebrities that day. For much like the celebration’s surroundings, my grandparents had led simple, somewhat out-dated lives, yet they had been a large part of making many good memories for many people. So with our feet firmly planted on that retro carpet, we waited while Aunt Daisy escorted them “out to dinner”. Upon their arrival, we surprised them with a cake decorated appropriately with a quilt and bib overalls.
Chapter 3: Hobbies
Strawberries
As my grandparents aged they spent less time worrying about farming (preferring to tell my Uncle HOW to do that for them) and more time on their hobbies. For Grandpa it was his blessed berries. The garden was filled with chicken wire bearing the weight of the vines while stakes and sticks dominated the soil where Grandpa had planted his latest graft that would sprout yet another hybrid of either…blackberries, gooseberries, strawberries, or blueberries, but mostly it was just another type of strawberry. Strawberries grow wonderfully in Iowa. It is not unusual for a farm kid to refuse to eat them in adulthood after having picked half his childhood away in quarts. Grandpa believed in such childhood hardships so each year he would plant and nurture MORE strawberries, adding to his already humongous beds. He did this, of course, for his children and grandchildren to pick, fearing I suppose, that their farms were not capable of producing strawberries, and therefore, his granddaughters would be bored. Every year he’d call and proudly announce that the strawberries were ready to be picked. So every year we females would plod out to the great patch and pick from eight in the morning until noon daily, until those blasted over-fertile plants quit producing. Naturally, this picking came with a price other than stiff knees. Everything came with a price with Grandpa. First, was the price of enduring a lecture from Grandpa. We had to pick them right. Grandpa would give us the same picking lesson each year, “Pinch off the vine just above the strawberry. Don’t pull them off, and NO eating them.” Then we would suffer through a slow and tedious demonstration from Grandpa. Finally, he would leave us to our picking. My cousin would laugh and say, “Oh, just go along with it. He can’t see very well. He’ll never know how we really pick them.” The second part of the price was monetary. We picked for half and paid him 50 cents for each quart we kept. He then promptly took his half to town to sell. I suppose it was a good deal considering my mother quit growing her own after a few years of this ritual. Overall, it produced a family of folk who knew a thing or two about strawberries. As a good city-slicker, I’ve decided to renounce this bit of my education – except for the eating part, of course.
Ducks
In the springtime, Grandma’s hobby became blatantly obvious to all who entered her house. There in her only bathroom located just off the kitchen (it had been added in the 1950s after the kids left home) were ducklings swimming in the bathtub. Somehow every year Grandma managed to find orphaned ducklings swimming on her pond that needed to be rescued. This orphan issue always perplexed me as I knew of no one else who had orphaned ducklings so frequently. I suspect Grandma needed those ducklings more than those ducklings needed her. Every evening during the mild seasons, Grandma would climb up the hill to the pond where she would feed and visit those ducks. I can still remember walking up that hill to feed those ducks with her. There is a vision in my mind of Grandma lumbering up that hill, her behind protruding in the air and her feet covered in her laced up SAS shoes, toes turned inward…it might seem like an unflattering picture of her, but I can’t think of a time when I found her more beautiful.
Gift-Giving
A friend once told me to give gifts based on what I wanted the receiver to have rather than worrying if that person would actually like the gift. My grandmother must have understood that concept. She loved to give us things made with her hands. One Christmas all the girls received an apron that she had sewn for us. I still have mine. It hangs in my kitchen, representing a time when women really cooked instead of using the microwave and calling it a day. Better yet, it reminds me of my Grandma who thought nothing of real cooking, not to mention growing her own food, canning it and using it as an ingredient in one of her famous dishes like apple salad.
Perhaps the strangest gift Grandma ever gave me was the colander. There I was in my white dress opening my wedding presents in front of my entire family, when I happened upon Grandma’s gift. At age eighty-three Grandma was known to do her own thing just as she had all of her life. I’m not sure this characteristic had become exaggerated, but rather she had just become more blatant about it. As I opened the paper, there lay before me a bright green colander. It was made by Tupperware, used by Grandma and slightly melted on one side. As I rustled further through the wrapping, I discovered a used bright blue casserole dish complete with a lid. It was very clean on the inside, but stained on the outside bearing witness to Grandma’s dishwashing methods. Last, but no least, were a few nicely washed and pressed dish towels. These were the kind I’d seen Grandma use on special occasions. I remember thinking that the gift was strange, used and inappropriate, but nevertheless I politely received it. After all, I was in the presence of my mother.
Now that I have a few more years, fat cells, and stretch marks under my belt, I think much differently about these gifts. In fact, I cherish them and make a point to use them often. I don’t believe that I have ever cooked pasta that did not experience the inside of that bright green colander before it saw the insides of our mouths. I smile every time I use the glass casserole dish, and I work hard to make sure that the outside of it doesn’t get too clean just as Grandma would have as she always was an efficient dish-washer.
It turns out my friend is right. A good gift is one you give someone because you want that person to have it. It is not based on what the receiver wants to receive. Ignoring my gift registry entire, my Grandma gave me the best wedding gift I received.
Tippy
Grandpa believed that every farm should have a dog…a dog that arrived spontaneously and made it his home. I never recall Grandpa purchasing a dog, receiving a dog from a friend’s litter of puppies or giving a dog away. To Grandpa a good dog showed up on your farm, you trained it to sit, and you name it “Tippy”. During the course of my youth Grandpa must have had at least three Tippys. It seemed as though as soon as he taught the dog to sit it would develop the fateful habit of car chasing, and since the highway was not far away, nearly every Tippy met his demise in that manner. Grandma was not exactly as fond of the family Tippy as Grandpa was. Grandpa trained all of his Tippies to be friendly and love human affection. Grandma would walk out the back door, and before Tippy could get near her, she would snap, “Down, Tippy!” This greeting became especially sad for the last Tippy. Grandpa had gone to the nursing home, and Tippy was left without his master to live life on my father’s farm. This turn of events was unfortunate for Tippy because my father shared my Grandma’s lack of affection for dogs. When Grandma stayed with my parents, my mother would always pet Tippy and call him a good dog. Under these circumstances Grandma began to mellow. At the time my mother reported that Grandma now patted Tippy’s head before she snapped, “Down, Tippy!”
Recycling Memories
Funerals and the corresponding memories of old became very important to my Grandfather during his seventh decade. They were nearly as important as reusing plastic and aluminum was to my Grandmother who knew nothing about the environmental issues, but a lot about saving a penny. Grandpa spent many a hour in those years attending funerals of people he once knew a little bit. At these occasions he would meet up with old friends where they would chat about old times and discuss their latest ailments such as poor circulation and bursitis. In a sense it was the school reunion they never had. After all, school for them was a small white building at the end of the gravel round attached to the family farm. It had no indoor plumbing, a wood stove, and didn’t offer instruction past the eighth grade which is precisely when they had stopped their formal education to begin working full time on the farm. It seemed to comfort Grandpa to attend these funerals. I suspect he wore his church clothes during those years more than he did during his whole lifetime. It was during this time that my maternal grandfather passed. When Grandpa found out that the funeral would be limited to only the immediate family, his whole demeanor sank with disappointment. It seemed to him a lost opportunity to remember old times. In a sense attending funerals kept him going...giving him a purpose for which to exercise his mind…giving him a sense of gain during a time of the passing of his generation. He was in a sense recycling memories.
Chapter 4: Church with Grandma
Church Rides
For many years, Grandma rode to church with us every Sunday morning. She had been going with her good friend, Francis, but after she moved away, Grandma rode with us. Many of the memories I have of her, include those car rides. She would often get in the car and pronounce some irregularity about herself or Grandpa. I remember one Sunday morning in particular she was terribly worried because her hands smelled like fish. She rambled on about it, then had me smell them to confirm the odor.
Often she would convince Grandpa to join her on Sunday evening as the crowd was smaller and Grandpa said he didn’t like crowds because of his sensitive nervous system. (Well, at least not at church; but the sale barn crowds never fazed him.) They’d come in and sit in the back row since Grandpa was a firm believer in keeping his distance from the minister. There Grandpa would sit grim-faced until the offering plate was passed. When it came to him, he would hold the plate away from the hand with which he was clutching a dollar bill or two, then trying not to look, would toss his money into the plate as if it were some strange mix of the games Pin-the-Tale-on-the-Donkey and Horse Shoes. Generosity was not the word most people used when describing Grandpa Boss.
Dares
Grandma always seemed spunkier when Grandpa wasn’t around. ( I often wonder what she would have been like if she had grown up during the women’s movement.) That’s why she was so much fun at church. She would joke, tease and badger the young men. She once challenged a doctor to sing a solo in church. He told her that he would if she would. So she dragged me with her to the front of the church, sang a hymn with me and called it a solo. Doc knew it wasn’t a fair deal, but he sang his solo just the same. I think he was afraid he’d have to hear us sing again. We could both carry a tune, but we didn’t have much more than that to offer.
Evening Rides
One Sunday evening, Grandma rode with us as Grandpa was too nervous to be in church that day. (This particular ailment was a common foe of Grandpa’s when an activity was proposed that did not necessarily meet his fancy.) As we drove towards town that late summer evening, it was growing dark. Grandma looked at the pink sunset and said emphatically, “Red sky tonight; sailor’s delight.” I had never heard that saying before. As I pondered on it, my ten year old brain began to wonder what it would be like to be a sailor. The heartland of America had brought me very little nautical education. Little did I know at that moment, that I would end up married to a sailor!
Actually, we always preferred for Grandpa to miss Sunday evening church in the summer months, and that night was no exception. Since Grandma felt the need to pay us back for an extra ride to church that day, she had announced on the way to church that she was buying ice cream cones for us all after the service (never mind the fact she wasn’t driving and had no idea if my parents needed to get home to do something). Under these circumstances, my parents felt obligated to take us to the creamery for fear of offending Grandma. How I cherished my Grandmother’s love of appeasing my sweet tooth!
Chapter 5: Grandma’s House and other Defining Places
The Old Place
It is with a note of resentment that I have been told by my father’s generation, that Grandpa and Grandma added the bathroom to the house after the children left home. For my generation it is unthinkable to ponder outhouse usage seriously. However, I suppose it is a common place ritual for those born in 1910. My grandparents saw fit to bestow the plague of the outhouse upon their three children. In fact, during my growing up years, the outhouse remained on the premises of the old place, and it was used upon occasion by the grandchildren who were fascinated by the concept. As much as the outhouse fascinated us, we were more intrigued with the old well. It sat on a round, concrete platform, topped with a red pump and sported a once-white metal cup hanging from a homemade hook made from bailing wire, a staple of all good farmers. I remember taking turns pumping it until water emerged. Then we all would marvel at the pleasantries of well water as we shared a drink from the metal cup.
Perhaps Grandma’s yard was the best part. She always had flowers planted in a row where they could be seen in bloom from the highway. There was a steep incline from the main yard to the driveway (really just a pull-in area) which Grandma insisted on mowing until she was nearly eighty. But that wasn’t the half of it. There was a man-made hill that resembled a grassy igloo that covered the cellar where Grandma stored all kinds of homemade can goods. Never wanting a blade of grass to grow under her feet, she mowed that as well.
Grandma believed that if something stood still it should be cleaned and papered or painted annually, preferably in the spring. I never remember seeing a flake of peeling paint in her house. However to the contrary, Grandma also believed in efficiency. One day while passing the time with Grandma she told me her trick to doing dishes so quickly. “No need to wash the outside of the cup,” she mused, “you don’t eat off of that!”
Their decision in their late seventies to leave the old place, left me feeling homesick. Grandma had always wanted a big house, so she talked Grandpa into buying the farm down the road that had a big, remodeled house already on it. Grandma spent hours at estate sales and garage sales furnishing the upstairs of that house. They never went upstairs and no one ever spent the night there, but she finally had her big house. I was happy for her, but I really missed the outhouse and the well at the old place.
No doubt their decision to put off modernizing until the kids left home was built on the same theory as that of my parents who refused to get air conditioning until we were grown. Whenever we complained about the lack of air conditioning, my mother would say, “It builds character. Besides, if you have air conditioning, we’ll never get you to work outside in the heat.” My children will likely have the same stories about their childhood…parents who refused to get cable television until their adulthood.
The New Place
It hardly seems right for two old folks to move into a big house after all the kids have left, and the grandchildren are grown. Furthermore, it seems ridiculous that two old folks would move into a house without a downstairs bedroom, but that’s what my grandparents did. Grandma fixed the bedroom problem in no time. She declared the dining room the living room, and the living room the bedroom. After all, who really uses a dining room when the kitchen is big enough for a table and chairs?
There must be something about new surroundings that stimulates the soul and invigorates the body since both grandparents seemed to have uncovered hidden barrels of energy when they moved to that new place on the highway. They never really used the upstairs; they didn’t even enjoy having overnight guests, but it was there just in case. Using only the downstairs really made their space comparable to what they had at the old place, but this move was a great adventure for them (and the entire family) so I guess it was worth it.
Grandpa took to tending it with the same vigor that Grandma took to furnishing it from top to bottom. By then he had his grandchildren mowing the grass, but heaven help them if they did it wrong. All those years Grandma had mowed the old place, Grandpa never seemed to be interested in how it was done, but this place was different. It was on the highway! All of his friends whom he saw at funerals would surely drive past to take a closer look knowing that he was the new owner. Furthermore, he wanted to make sure that what he had done around there would last a while, since he was getting up in years. At least, we hope that was his rationale for the tree-trimming mania.
It was a fall day when we made the discovery. We were riding home from school which required us to pass Grandpa’s house. There to our amazement stood four totem poles where four trees had once been. Did Grandpa have some Native American heritage he never told us about? Had he given up the Family Feud Faction for another cult? We stared in amazement, until we spotted a bit of bark left hanging on one of the totem poles. Yes, they were the four trees that had been there that morning; however, the close shave they had encountered under Grandpa’s supervision had the power to obscure reality.
White School House
Living on the family farm shorted me of the appropriate appreciation for the generations that went before me. I did always think it was neat that Grandpa Boss and his siblings had grown up in our house, and that the big maple was planted by him when he was just a boy. However, I overlooked the richness of the family history, especially the White School House. There at the end of our gravel road sat the lonesome structure where my grandfather and his sisters had gone to school, and where my father, his brother and his sister had gone as well. During my childhood, the structure was still used as the voting place for the Lick Creek Precinct, that is, until the roof sprung a nasty leak which no one saw need to repair. After all, the little schoolhouse had served its time. The outhouses were looking shabby and were no longer considered appropriate for public use, complicating the whole voting process. Now the building had no purpose other than to entertain the juvenile delinquents of the neighborhood who enjoyed helping themselves to the contents of the interior.
On more than one occasion, I snuck inside with my siblings. There we found old school books, some of which my parents recognized, antique desks, and remnants of what was needed for voting. Perhaps the most amazing find was the piano. Though left to freeze in the coldness of many Iowa winters, this old upright relic had managed to survive. My parents obtained the appropriate authority to take possession of the instrument. It still sits in my mother’s living room, and it is one of the best old pianos I have ever played. But more amazing to me than the piano were the initials carved in the wall of that old schoolhouse. “BG” and “DLG” were proudly cut into the wood, showing evidence of the use of a pocketknife. My grandfather and my father had definitely left their mark on the place.
It wasn’t until I left home that the community decided to repair the White School House. A local businessman who had once attended the school saw fit to start a repair fund. Then, when Grandpa passed, we asked that the White School House fund benefit from his memory. The outside structure has been repaired, plan are well-under way for the inside as well.
Chapter 6: Trains, Planes and Automobiles
The Train Ride
I don’t think my grandparents ever traveled by plane. It was considered too costly, and in their sheltered agrarian world, way too risky, even though 9/11 did not happen until after their mobile years. However, they once traveled across the United States to Los Angeles, California where Grandpa’s sister Daisy was living. The story goes that Daisy’s moved from Iowa to California to be near her daughter sometime shortly after the time of my birth. So it was that my grandparents felt it in their interest to travel west by train. I’ll never forget the birthday celebration gathering the month after their return. They had something for every grandchild. Grandma Ella sat in the kitchen chair nearest the counter where she kept the extra candy dishes and called us up one by one to receive our California souvenirs. This gift ceremony made a huge impression on us all, as none of the grandchildren had ever been to California. The younger granddaughters received the coveted San Francisco charm bracelet, while everyone else got a ceramic bank shaped like a train. Regrettably, I’ve lost track of my bracelet, but I did see one in my mother’s collection of the grandchildren’s play jewelry last time my daughter played dress up there. Seeing it brought back wonderful memories of my grandparents, and it made me smile to see my daughter place it on her wrist. Somehow it seemed as though the bracelet was passing on important family history to my child and the rest of the great grandchildren.
Grandma’s Car
I’ll never forget Grandma’s white Plymouth with the baby blue vinyl seats. She would go everywhere in that car. In fact, when she was feeling particularly energetic in the spring, she would load some of the younger grandkids up and take us to the county fair, an estate auction, or a home tour. One year I was the chosen child to go see all of Keosauqua’s historic homes with Grandma. I think we actually only went in about three houses before she was bored. But far more entertaining that the places Grandma took us, was her driving. On one occasion, I remember sitting in the front seat while Grandma was talking and driving down the nearly vacant highway, using both sides of the road freely. Thanks to the alertness of the driver of an eighteen-wheeler coming from the opposite direction and honking his horn, I was spared my youth that day.
After Grandma died, my cousin bought the new place along with Grandma’s white Plymouth. He parked the Plymouth next to the house, just like Grandma always did. I’ve never been told for sure, but I think it was intentional. Needless to say, it warmed the hearts of those who passed by, reminding them of Grandma.
Grandpa’s Vehicles
Grandpa drove the old car as his chore car. It was an old blue Ford, I believe. Rather, it was a metal boat. I think all three of my modern vehicles would fit into that monstrosity, and I hate to think what would happen if my vehicles actually had the misfortune of colliding with Grandpa’s car. Needless, to say, Grandpa’s car would have had the best outcome. When we would see Grandpa drive up to our house in that car, we knew that something was wrong. Namely, we had done something that made him mad, and he was there to see that he got his way about it. He wasn’t exactly the grandpa who carried candy in his pocket for the all the children. Rather, he begrudgingly handed you a peppermint if Grandma told him to.
It is only fair to give Grandpa credit for mellowing in his older years which makes seeing him on the tractor one of my fondest memories. His youngest granddaughter became the apple of his eye. More than once I saw them riding together on the tractor working in the field. It was a beautiful scene. This stern man who was known for his unfailing unreasonableness, transformed by a child.
Chapter 7: Savoring Life’s Last Drops
Recognition Comes in Many Forms
During the seven years before his death, Grandpa lived in a nursing home. His mind was riddled with dementia and his body was full of vigor. Sedation kept the staff of his unit safe and sane. He talked very little during those seven years which most of us attributed to the medication. In fact, after a few years he did not seem to recognize his grandchildren. I guess his memory was fading from present to past. When I would go to visit him, I would go through the same explanation each time, “Grandpa, it’s Mary…Don’s youngest daughter.” He’d respond the same way with a nod and a murmur. I was never sure if that meant he knew who I was, or if he thought he would just better act like he knew me in order to have a visitor stay a bit longer. By then he was nearly deaf and could barely see, so I’d hold his hand or touch his arm while I yelled any newsworthy items in his ear. His responses were made up of “Oh”, “I’ll be doggone,” and “Yep”. I have no idea if he knew what I was talking about or if he was responding that way so I’d move onto another topic. I always kept my visits short, mostly to avoid increasing my gut feeling that he had no idea who I was.
During this time, his sister Daisy came from California for a visit. She went to the nursing home amidst the family’s warnings that Grandpa would probably not recognize her. As Daisy walked in the room and called his name, all fears were allayed as he began speaking to her in Dutch, the language they had shared as children and he claimed to have forgotten years earlier. I’m not sure she understood a word he said, but at the same time, she completely understood his response. Through the dementia, the drugs, the failing vision, and faulty hearing, Bastein knew his sister Daisy.
Hands
Grandpa’s hands always fascinated me. From as long ago as I can remember, Grandpa always wore a glove on one hand. He said it was because he had poor circulation in that hand, and it was always cold. Like every good farmer I knew, he never wore his wedding ring. His hands were worn and tired, looking as if they had been avoiding rest all their born days. Curiously, he allowed his fingernails to grow a bit longer than I felt any man should. Now I wonder if they were tough as nails to cut or if he used them as a tool on the farm, but I never asked as a child. Somehow, I felt it would be disrespectful to inquire. Since no one else commented on the matter, I grew to accept it as one of Grandpa’s unexplained traits.
It wasn’t until both grandparents were in the nursing home that I truly grew to appreciate those hands, one gloved and the other bare. They had never made an affectionate gesture towards me other than granting me my wonderful ten dollar bill at Christmas, but the best was yet to come since Grandpa’s mind had left him much before his body ever did.
Although Grandpa and Grandma were not allowed to share a room in the nursing home due to Grandpa’s dementia, the staff made sure they were together as Grandma lay on her deathbed. It was not Grandpa’s mind that showed he understood, but rather his hands. For hours he sat beside her bed exercising the only means of effective communication he had left. He simply held her hand in his.
After Grandma passed, Grandpa’s mind held no memory of the hand-holding, but instead he often asked his children how Grandma was doing. They always smiled and told him that she was just fine, knowing that his hands were incapable of portraying the message of death to his mind.