7 - Grama

My grandparents farmed near Silton, Saskatchewan, a small town at the intersection of a long dirt road, and a paved highway. The only things I know for sure about Silton are that we went for ice-cream cones there on hot summer days, and the park had a hand-built, larger-than-life elephant that we climbed inside of, and slid out through the elephant’s trunk. 

At the end of the dirt road—the one that rode like a rollercoaster, with hills just steep enough to cause your stomach to lurch and float—sat the stone and mortar barn that marked the edge of the farm. We kids leaned eagerly over the front seat, watching and hoping to be the first to spot it, at the end of our long trip from Alberta to Saskatchewan. 

The farm became a family summer camp, most years. We would meet there with aunts, uncles and cousins. We kids enjoyed untethered freedom across acres of prairie grasses, on the edge of Last Mountain Lake. Prairie meets beach. 

My Grama and aunts packed up huge picnic lunches, and we’d head into the fields to intercept the combine, tractor or truck. We would scamper through the fields where stems of wheat brushed against our legs, and grasshoppers jumped out of our way. When it was time to get back to work, my Grampa would allow us each a turn to ride in the cab with him, a thrill—despite the smoke-filled enclosure. 

Grampa died when I was in my mid-twenties. The last time I saw him, we were gathered for the wedding of a younger cousin. I sat softly on Grampa’s knee, as I loved to do, even though I was no longer a child. He bounced me, and said, “Wendy, you better get married soon. You’re not going to be able to fool him with your good looks forever.” I always knew I was his favourite. 

My Grama lived another twenty-some years, and died at ninety-five; she accomplished many things in her life, some of which I only learned about at her funeral. The only grama I really knew was the one I saw as a child. That grama spent a lot of time in the kitchen; she made you sit at the table and finish every bite—even if it took hours, and you cried; she gave you Buckley’s cough syrup if you got sick; she sewed and knit many clothes for her dozens of grandchildren; and she always appeared in control of her emotions. If anyone had ever asked me, I would have said that she was happy. 

But now, on the brink of my fiftieth birthday, I know that happiness flits in and out with the speed of a hummingbird; pausing long enough so that you can taste the nectar. She must have had struggles I never saw. Why didn’t I ask her? How on earth did she manage seven children? What “tools” did she use to sustain her marriage? Did she ever consider self-care? How did she package up her feelings and keep them from spilling out? Maybe she didn’t. 

Grama was an enigma—but maybe that is only because I am two generations away, so I never lived with her. I only knew the “cover” of her, not the inside. Beautiful, poised, friendly, and accepting. Even when she was alive, I mostly learned about her from the stories that her seven children told. 

Grama was smart, she conversed about religion, politics, music, art, and other topics. Her pride in all of us revealed her acceptance of the different paths we chose. My brother married a “dancer” years ago; she danced while removing her clothes. When finding out about her occupation, my grama said, “Well, she must make a lot of money.” And that was that.

Once my grandparents retired, my grama seemed to blossom. She took courses at university, and helped to develop programming specifically for seniors. Playing cards allowed my Grama to use her brain, and get together with friends. Grama played the piano and organ, and we often had sing-a-longs in the living room of their seventh floor apartment—my mom and aunts doing a rendition of “Sisters” from the movie “White Christmas”. She had seasons tickets to the symphony, and got out as often as possible to enjoy the compositions. Her and Grampa travelled a lot after they retired—all over the world. 

My greatest joy in thinking about Grama was her noticeable love of family. She laughed a lot when we gathered, and she never seemed to tire of us. I know that all seven of her children talked to her on the phone regularly, and many of her grandchildren called as well. 

As I struggle through the days with my own family, I will think of my Grama’s smile, and garner strength, joy, and inspiration from that.