Seasons of Change

                              SEASONS of CHANGE

  I visited my grandparents on an autumn day. My grandparents had a neighbor and friend by the name of Elsie Whitaker. From the time I met her, she always made me feel that what I thought and did was important. One weekend I spent on my grandparents farm she stopped by to see if they would like some golden delicious apples she was going to pick a bushel for herself. I offered to help pick apples to bring back for them. I was twelve years old and this was my first time picking apples so I tried to listen intently to Miss Elsie's instructions. “Now, no picking any apples still on the tree". and “Only pick up apples from off the ground “. Other directions were not to choose to pick apples that had begun to rot, or too badly bruised. Miss Elsie told me as we loaded our two bushels of golden delicious apples that we would bring them in at my grandparents to wash them, cut out any dark spots, and ready the apples for baking and putting away for future use in the freezer.

  Being an only child, I enjoyed spending time with my first cousins and grandparents. Chores appointed to us were not taxing or strenuous. Chores were more interesting tasks, science projects, or simply learning experiences. One chore was to gather eggs while we left one egg in the nest for the hen to set on. I would watch amazed as my grandmother would put her hand underneath the hen to retrieve the eggs. My method of gathering eggs was to wait until the hen left to scratch out the chicken feed from the barnyard. If you have a rooster in your barnyard, and you let the hens set on the eggs then in the appointed time you will have fluffy chicks. If you only keep hens in your hen house then you will have a steady supply of eggs for breakfast and cooking meals.

   Another chore was helping my grandfather to break beans from their garden. My grandmother would hand us a basket of beans and we held one pan on our laps and a paring knife in our hands. The other larger community pan we dropped our green beans into. This was only when we had pulled the strings off the beans, used the knife to gently remove the brown spots on the beans, then break the beans. We finished our task by washing the green beans in the larger pan. We cleaned up by throwing away the strings from of the beans. The beans string began at the top going to the bottom. Sometimes we removed the outside covering shelling out the tiny pods. Hence, the name of one type of bean called shelly bean. Once finished with this chore, my grandmother would take over canning the beans in the canner or pressure cooker. This canning method would provide food through the long winter months ahead.

  Watering plants in the garden or flowers around the walkway was a pleasant chore. The garden consisted of tall corn, beans growing attached to wooden poles, potatoes, tomatoes, green and hot peppers, cabbage, carrots, lettuce and onions. It was a good experience to just go out to the garden to select what you would like during the growing season. Flowers of my grandmother’s choosing were marigolds, petunias, and hanging baskets of geraniums. There were also beautiful red and yellow rose bushes. There were special occasions when we would pick flowers to place in a vase. Sharing your heart with your grandmother is a beautiful treasure. I told her I would rather have flowers growing outside than cut left to wither and die too soon. Many years later, I would have a husband that would plant rose bushes in my yard, filling the air with a sweet fragrance. 

   Whenever my Uncle Dan brought cattle from one field to another me, along with my cousins would walk behind the cows urging them to the adjoining pasture field. We spoke to them and guided them with a tobacco stick. The cows would hurry on as we startled them with our constant presence during the move. I once watched from a distance from the barn as my uncle and a veterinarian tried to aid a cow in giving birth to her calf. It was bloody, and excruciating for the cow as she delivered her 140 lbs. calf for they took scales and weighed the young animal. For my naïve eyes there was a wonder in the new life I saw come into the world. My grandmother was gifted with a brown and white milk cow and she showed me how to milk a cow and then let me try. Firmly yet gently, I squeezed the tears and in a few moments that seemed to last forever, milk came forth making a zinging sound into the bucket. The cow turned her head and looked at me, knowing my young inexperienced hands were different from the gentle though calloused hand of my grandmother. My grandfather and uncle kept beef cattle: herefords, red with white faces and legs and tails and angus: stocky, and solid black in color.

   Stories told me by my grandfather of his boyhood days. His interests were fishing, hunting, working a farm yield its potential and as an adult politics. He was a deacon in the Presbyterian church, and when in poor health, fellow members would bring food in times of family sickness. Other times a visit included tapes for a cassette player so that he might listen to messages. He always was interested in what I was thinking. We had long talks about current happenings. He told me I was at home in his home, a two story white farmhouse. He asked me to say grace and ask a blessing on this family. In part, it went like this; “God Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and us to Your service". Amen. He showed respect to a young girl that was shy and unsure of herself. 

   Tender-hearted, loving and kind my grandmother taught me patience and understanding with people or animals. She patiently changed dressings on the heel of my grandfather’s right foot. The doctor told her she had prolonged the use of that leg, which eventually had to be amputated. In earlier years, my grandparents allowed my Uncle Dan and Aunt Jane a place to live while they were building a new house. When my parents divorced after I graduated high school, my Dad the black sheep in the family drank all night, winding up passed out in the front yard by the pine tree. She was barely 5 feet tall and persistent. She tried to lift her son up onto a wooden chair and get him into the house before everyone in the community knew what happened. My other uncle, Uncle Tom was loudly opinionated and argued with my grandfather about his belief system. Bitter words spewed from my uncle’s mouth about politics and religion. My grandfather then, totally blind and his right leg amputated, motioned for me to draw closer and whispered to me, “ You know what I have always believed, know that I still do".

   My grandmother taught Sunday school, which was her only social outlet. Elsie Whitaker purchased a Toni perm and would style her hair on occasion which was a highlight in her life. At times my mother or her two other daughter in laws would offer to take her grocery shopping. She seemed to like this, we could never be absolutely sure. She never liked to be away from her husband for very long. From a grocery trip she would sneak in candies or chocolate and hid this. It was her only selfish act I was ever aware of. Her favorite time was on Sundays dinner meal, she prepared everything and our mothers did the dishes after a long talk around the table.

   In the world, I felt safe and at peace. She would tuck me into bed even up to the time I was expecting my first child, kissing me on the forehead. Covered by quilts, she had made with her own two hands I would sleep sound until daylight. Through the night I would hear the clock chiming on the hour if sleep did not come. Many years later, I held her hand in mine as her frail, fragile body drew close to a time of permanent rest. Her soul would be free. What a difference a day makes. One person can uplift and inspire our lives with simple kindness.