As a child, it was obvious that my dad loved and admired his mother. She struggled during the depression as a widow raising six children, 5 boys and 1 girl, which explains why she didn’t fit the stereotypical image of a grandma. When we visited, the kids played outside and were expected to be seen and not heard — not just an expression at my grandmother’s house. I never doubted that she loved us, but hugs and cuddles were not freely distributed.
In their home when Dad grew up, recycling was not a trend but a way of life. Clothes were handed down from one child to the next, leftovers, when there were any, served as the foundation for the next meal, and there existed little that vinegar and water could not clean. If dirt remained, they were expected to scrub harder. Survival meant making do with what they had and not complaining.
So, when the neighbor offered the small plot of land next door for grandma to plant a garden, she readily accepted. The story Dad shared helped me understand Grandma and reminded me of the fable, The Little Red Hen.
Just like the hen, Grandma tilled the ground, planted the seeds, water and weeded as the seedlings grew. The garden provided hope, food for her children. However, when the neighbor saw the garden in all its glory, he announced that since the garden was on his property, he planned to reap the rewards and pick the vegetables himself. He apparently had never read the fable because he didn’t anticipate Grandma’s response.
I believe this might be the day the expression “mad as a wet hen” emerged. I envision grandma, dripping in sweat from exhaustion after chores, disciplining children and maintaining a full-time job. Her garden produced not only needed food for her family but pride as a result of hard work.
Dad released a full belly laugh when he told how she hit the neighbor with the shovel. When he stopped laughing and ended his tale he said, “That garden was hers, by God!” I can’t imagine a court in the country that would have found Grandma guilty of a crime.
In difficult times people take extreme measures to protect loved ones. What we do or don’t do could impact the rest of our lives. When we observe others, watch the news, and hear about incidents that might challenge our understanding of civility, remember people are trying to survive. Most of us are attempting to make sense of the strange events in our would.
My instincts are to protect myself and loved ones. I work to make the world better through compassion and empathy. The ultimate goal is to share love with others; however, I remember all humans possess a natural instinct to protect family and friends. Grandma’s story taught me that love can inspire actions much stronger than hate.
Whenever we ended a visit at grandma’s house we carried with us vegetables from her garden, jars of raspberry jam, a sack of left-overs for our 8 hour trip home, and memories. We left with tokens of love from her dedication to work. She may not have dispensed hugs freely or even gushed over us professing her love, but there was never a doubt that we were loved.
The morals of this story –
Treat your neighbor as you would have them treat you.
Work will set you free.
Oh, and don’t try to take a bone from a dog.