The Farm

I'm thrilled to be part of a new writing group - The Flywheel Society.  This is my first assignment...a memory from childhood.

“Grandchildren are the crown of old men...” Prov. 17:6

Some of my richest childhood memories were at my grandparents’ farm in Kansas.   My heart would start to beat faster and faster as the station wagon would make its way up the dirt driveway.  I could see the house from the back seat and quickly jump out as soon as the car stopped.   Running in the house, I would usually be greeted by my Grandma Letha who would usually say something about my need to wash or brush my hair as she embraced me. 

My Grandpa would come soon after and my moments with him would be impressed upon me for much longer than I’m sure he ever thought.  Although I know the house doesn’t make the home, I truly loved the house.  As you walked in, it was hard to miss the large cow horns hung on the entryway that often held his cowboy hat.  The kitchen was narrow and a staircase ran right behind it leading into the basement.  The basement was always intriguing with a pool table and jukebox, where my older cousins played pool and listened to Air Supply.  However, we mostly gravitated to the "den" with wood paneling, the TV, and a weird shag carpet tapestry on the wall.  There were three fridges in the house…one in the kitchen full of our favorites; one in the basement full of Coke and Pepsi; and a deep freezer on the enclosed patio packed of ice cream and popsicles.  

There was enough space and intrigue of the house and the farm to keep us occupied for days but the characters of my grandparents along with the addition of lots of cousins were the real attraction.  I learned at some point in my adolescence that my grandfather was not my biological grandfather, which was no matter to me.  I knew that my mother’s biological father had died long before I was born and I was very familiar with his family.  I guess it never occurred to me as strange that he held any different sort of position or connection to us.  It almost made me appreciate his affections even more to know that he was not biologically my grandfather yet looked at me as his own.

I knew very early on and very clearly that he loved me.  He would take me out to his fields of cattle and tell me if we could catch a cow I could ride one.  He would hoist me up and come close to sitting me on the back of a cow until it ran skittishly away.  He planted watermelon seeds with me in the summer and meticulously made ‘people’ out of dollar bills for Christmas.  I will never forget him and my grandmother driving all the way to our little town to see me in a ballet recital.  I was an angel that year and my only part was to run across the stage.  I was sitting on his lap when my Grandmother said “Did we really come all this way to just watch her run across the stage?” We all laughed and he looked at me and said, “yes.” 

He wasn’t a perfect man but to me he was tall and broad and I adored him. I was a teenager when he was diagnosed with cancer.  In the weeks before his death, I sat on the living room couch holding his frail hand looking out the window.  I noticed just how frail and skinny they had become and my heart became full of the memories I had with him and the gratefulness I had for his profound love for me throughout my childhood.

As a parent now, I long for our children to know the love that we have for them and that their family loves them.  Not a fluffy kind of love but a deep unconditional rich love.  My hope is they will know real love that comes from above and it will shape them as they go out into the world.  I was considerably fortunate as a child to know and experience love by my immediate and extended family. Although I will probably not ever fully know how that one truth effected me as an adult, I do know that it shaped my perspective of myself, my worth, and the world around me.