Afternoons with my Unconventional Grandma

My grandma was unconventional, that’s for sure. She rode a motorcycle, she fished, she skiied, and she hunted. And, no, my grandma was not part of a biker gang. She just loved riding her motorcycle. 

I never understood as a child that my grandma was different from the other grandmas. That’s just the way she was, and I loved and accepted her for it. 

Grandma was tall with short gray hair, kind brown eyes and a great, big smile. Every time I hugged her, the overwhelming scent of fresh air and Listerine mouth wash filled my nostrils. Grandma gave the best hugs, and I always looked forward to seeing her.

There are so many special memories I have of spending time with my grandma when I was a young child, and each one puts a smile on my face, if not outright laughter. Grandma was a real character.  

One of my favorite memories I have of my grandma is when she picked me up on her motorcycle in the summers when I visited my dad and stepmother in Northern Wisconsin.  Sometimes Grandma would pick me up in her truck, and we would go to the Piggly Wiggly to buy groceries for one of our favorite dinners, Swedish meatballs.  But, more often not, Grandma came on her favorite mode of transportation, her motorcycle. I always knew when Grandma picked me up on the motorcycle that she would have one of my favorite dinners, pot roast, cooking at home in her oven. Grandma always sprinkled cinnamon on top of her pot roasts, and, let me tell you, those pot roasts were some of the best I have ever tasted.  

Before we left my dad and stepmother’s house, Grandma and I would decide on a place to go eat for lunch.  Sometimes it was a local hamburger joint called Mickey Lu’s, sometimes it was the A&W Root Beer Stand.  Before we got on her motorcycle, Grandma would wind a long, fuzzy scarf around my neck. Grandma didn’t want me to “catch a chill” as she called it. That scarf was thick and always made me sweat. But once we got on the highway, I always appreciated the warmth it provided as Grandma sped down the road, swerving from lane to lane passing cars in a hurry to get to where we were going.   

After we ate lunch, then it was on to Grandma’s house. Grandma lived in the small town of Marinette, about a half hour from my dad and stepmother’s house, on the Peshtigo River. Grandma’s yard was filled with colorful wildflowers, plants and many bird feeders. In the middle of the yard was a big shade tree with a little wooden bench built around it so people could sit and watch the river as it slowly floated by. On the banks of the river was a wooden dock. Tied to the dock was Grandma’s little metal fishing boat.

Once we got to Grandma’s house, we would go inside and check on the dinner. As we walked into the house, the heavenly aroma of pot roast greeted us, and my mouth watered in anticipation of that delicious meal. When Grandma was done checking the roast, she would turn to me and utter the words I most dreaded to hear:

“Now let’s go fishing!” Grandma would say with a big smile on her face. 

When I heard those words, my heart sank. I hated fishing. But I always put a stoic smile on my face because I loved Grandma and didn’t want to disappoint her.

After we got in Grandma’s boat, she started the engine, and we motored out to the middle of the narrow river. Once Grandma dropped the anchor, she got our fishing poles ready. After I took the pole from her, I shivered in revulsion at the sight of the squirming worm impaled on the hook and quickly dropped it into the water. 

While Grandma got her pole ready, she would warn me to sit still and not make a sound. 

“If the fish hear us, they will swim away, and we won’t catch one,” Grandma explained. 

I looked at Grandma and solemnly promised her that I would not make a sound. Unfortunately, I never could keep that promise, and in no time at all I was wiggling in my seat and talking. I thought if I talked in a low voice, the fish wouldn’t hear us.  I talked about my pony, I talked about my new roller skates. I talked about my friends at school. Each time Grandma heard my voice, she would once again caution me to be quiet, but, unfortunately, the silence didn’t last long.

Often fish jumped in the river. And when I heard a splash, I was convinced it was a shark, and I would scream in terror. 

“Shark! Shark! GRANDMA!  THERE’S A SHARK IN THE RIVER!”

Poor Grandma would jump when she heard me yell. I’m surprised she never dropped her pole in the water.

“You almost scared the life out of me, Honey! Remember, there are no sharks that live in Grandma’s river,” she would say as she patted her chest to calm herself down.

This wasn’t the first time I thought I saw a shark in the river. Unfortunately, no amount of reassurance on Grandma’s part would put my fears to rest, and time and time again this scene was repeated. 

I can’t tell you how many times I went fishing in the summers with my grandma, but each time we went, I had convinced myself that she had no idea I didn’t like it. Sometimes our fishing expeditions lasted 15 minutes, sometimes they lasted half an hour. It all depended on my capacity to sit still and not talk.      

When I was in my early teens, Grandma decided to take me fly fishing. Maybe she thought I would like that better.  

After we motored out into the middle of the river, Grandma grabbed a pole, put a worm on the end, and showed me how to cast the line far out into the water.  When it reached the desired distance, Grandma showed me how to push a button to stop the line so it would stop and drop into the water.    

As I took the pole awkwardly in my hands, I lifted it and cast the line. Unfortunately, I forgot to press the button to stop the line from going too far, and it landed in a tree on the banks of the river.  Grandma grabbed the pole from me and tugged and tugged trying to disentangle the line from the tree, but it was firmly stuck. Grandma sighed and shook her head in frustration as she started the engine and motored back to shore. 

I still remember holding my breath and saying silent prayers that Grandma wouldn’t fall in the water as she stood up in the wobbling boat and disentangled the line from the tree. Thankfully Grandma didn’t fall, but, let me tell you, she was not happy.

That was the last time Grandma ever took me fishing. 

After all these years, I still smile when I think about fishing with Grandma. As much as I tried to convince her that I liked fishing, she knew I didn’t care for it, but she continued to take me for years in the hopes that I would acquire a love for it as much as she did. Unfortunately, in her lifetime, that didn’t happen because she died when I was in my early 20s. And at that time in my life, sitting still for long periods of time was still hard for me to do.

If I could wiggle my nose right now, I would transport myself back in time to Grandma’s warm and loving kitchen with her at the stove preparing my favorite meal, pot roast with cinnamon on top and smooshed up strawberries for dessert. 

Now that I am in mid-life, I realize I am finally able to sit still and appreciate the calmness and serenity that comes from fishing. I just wish Grandma was here to take me. 

And in case you’re wondering, I never did pick up the love of motorcycles like Grandma had. I grew up with horses, and that’s my favorite mode of transportation!