Today is the day Grandma Fishie went to sleep, and didn't wake up, 22 years ago.
For two-thirds of my life, Grandma Fishie has been gone. I really can't fathom that. She passed away when I was 10 years old. I can't remember much from when I was 10 years old, but I remember that, and most everything we did together up to then. And everything we've done together since.
When I was somewhere around 2nd grade, Grandma got me a lamb. A real lamb. They always had cows and dogs and other animals out at the fish farm, but for some reason, they had sheep that year. And she gave me my very own baby lamb! I think maybe she felt sorry for me. My Mom had just moved us all to a new town, I had no friends, and a student at the beauty school had just permed my hair to look like Little Orphan Annie. A boy at school had tugged on my hair and laughed, said it looked like a wig. I was devastated. So, she gave me Gabby. And Gabby made everything better.
If you've never seen a baby lamb up close, I've got to tell you, it's the cutest thing in the world. Gabby loved me like I was her mother, and she probably thought I was, since I was the one feeding her. She never stopped talking, hence the name Gabby. Grandma taught me how to make her bottle - a BIG bottle, and she would follow me around all day, looking for more. Hungry little critter. I washed her with the hose when she got muddy, I cuddled and played with her on the grass. We were best buddies.
Grandma read in the paper that at the "Scio Lamb Show" this year, there was going to be a "Fastest Bottle-Drinking" competition, and we both knew Gabby would win. There were no restrictions on the age of the sheep, or the age of the owner, just the amount of milk in the bottle. Gabby and I practiced every day - and she was happy for it!
The day of the Lamb Show competition arrived. I was so excited I could barely sit still. We loaded Gabby in a crate in the back of Grandma's truck, and off we went. I didn't like her back there, it seemed cramped, and I didn't want her to be nervous for the big day. She whined and bawled the whole way to town. At the competition, we got Gabby out, tied a rope to her collar, and went in to this little arena where the bottle-drinking would take place. There were about a dozen other people in there with their sheep. And they were ALL OLD SHEEP! I thought this was a LAMB SHOW! Where were all the LAMBS? Gabby was the only little one, and I knew we had a lot of work to do. The announcer explained the rules, and we all got ready. Gabby's bottle wasn't a regular bottle. It was a 20oz beer bottle, emptied out and filled with milk, with a nipple duct-taped to the top. We had been so excited, we forgot her bottle, and had to make a new one at the show.
The announcer fired his toy gun, and off we went! We hadn't fed Gabby that morning, so she would be extra hungry and drink her milk faster - and it worked! She was sucking on that nipple like she'd never had a meal before! She was so excited that she jumped and kicked and nearly knocked me over. In the excitement, our makeshift bottle came apart, spilling half the milk all over Gabby's head and my jeans and shoes! All of a sudden we were done! And I held up the empty bottle and screamed "WE DID IT!" After careful inspection of the bottle's remains, the judge announced with a wink, "WE HAVE A WINNER!" We won, we won, we won!
For our big prize, Gabby and I got a blue ribbon, a $25.oo savings bond, and a statue of a sheep titled "FASTEST BOTTLE-DRINKING LAMB" that also doubled as a piggy bank. I was on top of the world! I still have that statue today, sitting on my book shelf in my room. It is one of the proudest moments of my life!
Thanks Grandma! I miss you, and I love you! And I'll never forget.
Showing posts with label Grandma Fishie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grandma Fishie. Show all posts
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
KitchenAid Mixer Anxiety
I received my new KitchenAid Mixer yesterday, courtesy of my wonderful mother! I am very excited about this, as it's an item I have been coveting for a very long time. And I know it's going to help me tremendously in my pumpkin bread production.
However, I have some anxiety about it. Will my bread have as much love in it with the flick of a switch, as opposed to the turn of a spoon? Will it taste as good having been mixed by a machine? There's a lot I think about, and a lot of memories come flooding in when I've got one arm wrapped around a mixing bowl, and one wrestling with the contents, stirring, smushing, melding. The muscles in my arms tire with the effort, but I think I'm gonna miss that.
My Grandma had a mixer, and that's when I first wanted one...way back when... And now I've got one. But, the majority of the time we baked together, we stood over bowls bigger than me. With wooden spoons in our grip, laughing, talking, stirring silently sometimes, thinking, dreaming, humming, hoping. I hope I'm not abandoning something. I hope I'm not losing anything. I hope I don't forget.
However, I have some anxiety about it. Will my bread have as much love in it with the flick of a switch, as opposed to the turn of a spoon? Will it taste as good having been mixed by a machine? There's a lot I think about, and a lot of memories come flooding in when I've got one arm wrapped around a mixing bowl, and one wrestling with the contents, stirring, smushing, melding. The muscles in my arms tire with the effort, but I think I'm gonna miss that.
My Grandma had a mixer, and that's when I first wanted one...way back when... And now I've got one. But, the majority of the time we baked together, we stood over bowls bigger than me. With wooden spoons in our grip, laughing, talking, stirring silently sometimes, thinking, dreaming, humming, hoping. I hope I'm not abandoning something. I hope I'm not losing anything. I hope I don't forget.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Love Baking
My house smells like pumpkin bread every day now.
Baking means more than mixing up ingredients and putting them in the oven. Baking, for me, is the essence of my Grandma wafting through the air, tickling my memory, and turning my face happy no matter what else is on my mind.
My Grandma passed away when I was 10 years old. There are only two things I regret about the time we spent together. I remember clearly being at her house, I must've been around 8 years old at the time. We were in the living room, watching "The Price Is Right" and relaxing. For some reason, we got in a fight. I wanted something and she wouldn't let me have it. I don't even remember what it was, but I remember distinctly what happened next. I yelled at her and told her I hated her, then stormed out of the living room. Moments later, realizing the mistake I made, I peeked around the corner, afraid. Afraid of a spanking, afraid of what I imagined would be a very angry Grandma, awaiting my return with punishment ready. What I saw instead, was my Grandma crying. A punishment that fit the crime.
At her funeral, my cousin Brad and I got in trouble. There was this man singing some sort of operatic ballad and it tore us up. We started giggling and couldn't stop. We were chasing each other around the somber crowd as if it was a carnival, not a funeral. When I apologized later, my Mom said it was okay, that everyone deals with death differently. But it wasn't okay. The only chance I had to pay my respects, I was laughing instead.
Most of my memories with my Grandma are in the kitchen. We baked pies, and breads, and cakes. We made applesauce at the old porcelain sink, watching my Grandpa and the boys through the window, bringing down apples from the orchard and grinding them into cider. We picked blackberries along the drive for pies and jams. We made sandwiches and tea for all the men working on some thing or another. My Grandma took me to the dentist for the first time and bought me a hamburger and ice cream right after. We used to go shopping at the thrift stores to find treasures.
And my Grandma took me with her to put together and deliver food to the elderly for "Meals on Wheels". What a grand adventure! We put together the meals at the old Grange Hall in Scio, a million women in the kitchen, slinging cornbread and mashed potatoes and meatloaf and green beans. The heat and energy there was mesmerizing. We loaded up Grandma's old red pickup truck and headed out for deliveries. At the first house, Grandma made me deliver the food by myself. A very old woman with hollow, wet eyes answered the door. I was instantly sad for her. I told her I had a meal for her, and the styrofoam box grew heavy in my hands. She told me she didn't really eat much these days, handed me a check for $4.00, and asked if I would come in and look at something. In that moment, fear and compassion were pulling me in two very different directions. I looked in the house, looked out at Grandma in the truck, looked at this sad, sad woman, and went inside. The hot food was burning my hands and I set it down, at last, on a corner of her coffee table. The rest of the table was covered in old photos.
"This is my daughter," the old woman said, holding up a photo of a brunette about my age. "I don't see her any more. And these are my boys...they haven't been up to see me in more than...well, seven years I guess." She went silent and still.
"There's meatloaf and mashed potatoes in there," I say, because I don't know what else to do. And I just want to leave this sad, smelly place.
"Oh, I don't eat much, really." I open the box and steam flushes out. I take the plastic fork and knife and cut a piece of meatloaf and dip it in the potatoes.
"You should try a bite...it looks really good." I move the bite towards her and she closes her eyes, opens her mouth, and lets me feed her.
When her eyes open again, a tear comes sliding out and down her cheek. The hollowness has disappeared and I see her children dancing there, laughing, playing.
My Grandma came through the door, told me we need to get to the rest of the deliveries, told the woman to make sure and eat every bite, and before I know it we were back in the truck. Though I am usually full of things to say, we drove on in complete silence for what seemed like a very long time until we got to the next stop on our delivery list.
That next stop came as quite a surprise, as Grandma liked to drive fast, and almost missed the turn-in to a very strange place.
"Hold on!" Grandma reached across the seat to hold me in, slammed on her breaks, cut in front of a rather large truck, and skidded to a stop in a dirt turn-around nearly covered in blackberry bushes.
"Geesh, Grandma! What is this place? Does someone actually live here?" There was a very small trailer, covered in blackberry bushes with newspapers stacked from the ground to the top of the trailer, all the way around it.
"Hello Ma'am, Missus," a little crooked man had come out from somewhere in the tangles of that trailer to greet us. Grandma and I got out of the truck and said hello. I handed him his meal and he smiled, sort of. Is it still considered a smile if you only have three teeth? I wondered. "Thank you, Missus, just you wait here a sec, I've got something for you." He disappeared into the tangles once again, and came out with two full bags of newspapers which he set at my feet.
"What's this?" I asked, totally confused.
"It's all I got." He hung his head and turned up his palms. "Here, lemme bring some more for you," and he turned to go back to the trailer.
"No, no, this'll be just fantastic!" Grandma chimed. "You wanna save some for next time, right?" She smiled at him as he turned back to us, and he nodded in agreement. We all looked around then, at the thousands of newspapers piled everywhere, and got the giggles. My Grandma gave him a hug, whispered something in his ear, and once again, we were down the road.
On our last delivery, we came down a long, rutted road that bumped and rattled us for what seemed like miles. A ginormous mansion sat at the end, and I thought 'who could possibly need food that owns a house as big as this'? A very bouncy woman with long, wild, silver hair rushed out to meet us in the drive. My Grandma jumped from the truck and embraced her as if they were old friends reuniting, and they hugged and talked and held hands and walked. And I was forgotten, and meals were forgotten.
On my own in this wonderous place, I wandered around and looked at everything. The house was huge, but looked as if it was held up by a string. It was the color of this woman's hair, grey and black, and would make a good haunted house for Halloween. There were chickens running around all over the place. The property was lush and green, damp and secret. It was a treasure, not found at a thrift store, but at the end of a very bumpy road. I found a black and orange caterpillar on the ground and picked it up. Usually they curl up in a ball, afraid they'll be eaten. But it just crawled around on my hand and arm like I was part of the terrain. Maybe it knew that nothing could be harmed in this place. Maybe it knew it lived in wonderland.
Grandma finally came back to the truck with Millie - the smiley, wild woman - who was carrying five flats of fresh eggs. I don't know how we ever made it back down that road without breaking one of them.
I hope these days, that my Grandma knows I didn't hate her, and that I don't hate anything. I hope these days that my Grandma can see me happy, see me baking, and feel my respect. And I know, true in my heart, that her hand is on mine with every stir of the spoon. That I can hear her absently humming in the kitchen while I bake. That love is the most important ingredient in any confection. And that she taught me how the smell of love baking lingers long after the crumbs have been wiped away.
Baking means more than mixing up ingredients and putting them in the oven. Baking, for me, is the essence of my Grandma wafting through the air, tickling my memory, and turning my face happy no matter what else is on my mind.
My Grandma passed away when I was 10 years old. There are only two things I regret about the time we spent together. I remember clearly being at her house, I must've been around 8 years old at the time. We were in the living room, watching "The Price Is Right" and relaxing. For some reason, we got in a fight. I wanted something and she wouldn't let me have it. I don't even remember what it was, but I remember distinctly what happened next. I yelled at her and told her I hated her, then stormed out of the living room. Moments later, realizing the mistake I made, I peeked around the corner, afraid. Afraid of a spanking, afraid of what I imagined would be a very angry Grandma, awaiting my return with punishment ready. What I saw instead, was my Grandma crying. A punishment that fit the crime.
At her funeral, my cousin Brad and I got in trouble. There was this man singing some sort of operatic ballad and it tore us up. We started giggling and couldn't stop. We were chasing each other around the somber crowd as if it was a carnival, not a funeral. When I apologized later, my Mom said it was okay, that everyone deals with death differently. But it wasn't okay. The only chance I had to pay my respects, I was laughing instead.
Most of my memories with my Grandma are in the kitchen. We baked pies, and breads, and cakes. We made applesauce at the old porcelain sink, watching my Grandpa and the boys through the window, bringing down apples from the orchard and grinding them into cider. We picked blackberries along the drive for pies and jams. We made sandwiches and tea for all the men working on some thing or another. My Grandma took me to the dentist for the first time and bought me a hamburger and ice cream right after. We used to go shopping at the thrift stores to find treasures.
And my Grandma took me with her to put together and deliver food to the elderly for "Meals on Wheels". What a grand adventure! We put together the meals at the old Grange Hall in Scio, a million women in the kitchen, slinging cornbread and mashed potatoes and meatloaf and green beans. The heat and energy there was mesmerizing. We loaded up Grandma's old red pickup truck and headed out for deliveries. At the first house, Grandma made me deliver the food by myself. A very old woman with hollow, wet eyes answered the door. I was instantly sad for her. I told her I had a meal for her, and the styrofoam box grew heavy in my hands. She told me she didn't really eat much these days, handed me a check for $4.00, and asked if I would come in and look at something. In that moment, fear and compassion were pulling me in two very different directions. I looked in the house, looked out at Grandma in the truck, looked at this sad, sad woman, and went inside. The hot food was burning my hands and I set it down, at last, on a corner of her coffee table. The rest of the table was covered in old photos.
"This is my daughter," the old woman said, holding up a photo of a brunette about my age. "I don't see her any more. And these are my boys...they haven't been up to see me in more than...well, seven years I guess." She went silent and still.
"There's meatloaf and mashed potatoes in there," I say, because I don't know what else to do. And I just want to leave this sad, smelly place.
"Oh, I don't eat much, really." I open the box and steam flushes out. I take the plastic fork and knife and cut a piece of meatloaf and dip it in the potatoes.
"You should try a bite...it looks really good." I move the bite towards her and she closes her eyes, opens her mouth, and lets me feed her.
When her eyes open again, a tear comes sliding out and down her cheek. The hollowness has disappeared and I see her children dancing there, laughing, playing.
My Grandma came through the door, told me we need to get to the rest of the deliveries, told the woman to make sure and eat every bite, and before I know it we were back in the truck. Though I am usually full of things to say, we drove on in complete silence for what seemed like a very long time until we got to the next stop on our delivery list.
That next stop came as quite a surprise, as Grandma liked to drive fast, and almost missed the turn-in to a very strange place.
"Hold on!" Grandma reached across the seat to hold me in, slammed on her breaks, cut in front of a rather large truck, and skidded to a stop in a dirt turn-around nearly covered in blackberry bushes.
"Geesh, Grandma! What is this place? Does someone actually live here?" There was a very small trailer, covered in blackberry bushes with newspapers stacked from the ground to the top of the trailer, all the way around it.
"Hello Ma'am, Missus," a little crooked man had come out from somewhere in the tangles of that trailer to greet us. Grandma and I got out of the truck and said hello. I handed him his meal and he smiled, sort of. Is it still considered a smile if you only have three teeth? I wondered. "Thank you, Missus, just you wait here a sec, I've got something for you." He disappeared into the tangles once again, and came out with two full bags of newspapers which he set at my feet.
"What's this?" I asked, totally confused.
"It's all I got." He hung his head and turned up his palms. "Here, lemme bring some more for you," and he turned to go back to the trailer.
"No, no, this'll be just fantastic!" Grandma chimed. "You wanna save some for next time, right?" She smiled at him as he turned back to us, and he nodded in agreement. We all looked around then, at the thousands of newspapers piled everywhere, and got the giggles. My Grandma gave him a hug, whispered something in his ear, and once again, we were down the road.
On our last delivery, we came down a long, rutted road that bumped and rattled us for what seemed like miles. A ginormous mansion sat at the end, and I thought 'who could possibly need food that owns a house as big as this'? A very bouncy woman with long, wild, silver hair rushed out to meet us in the drive. My Grandma jumped from the truck and embraced her as if they were old friends reuniting, and they hugged and talked and held hands and walked. And I was forgotten, and meals were forgotten.
On my own in this wonderous place, I wandered around and looked at everything. The house was huge, but looked as if it was held up by a string. It was the color of this woman's hair, grey and black, and would make a good haunted house for Halloween. There were chickens running around all over the place. The property was lush and green, damp and secret. It was a treasure, not found at a thrift store, but at the end of a very bumpy road. I found a black and orange caterpillar on the ground and picked it up. Usually they curl up in a ball, afraid they'll be eaten. But it just crawled around on my hand and arm like I was part of the terrain. Maybe it knew that nothing could be harmed in this place. Maybe it knew it lived in wonderland.
Grandma finally came back to the truck with Millie - the smiley, wild woman - who was carrying five flats of fresh eggs. I don't know how we ever made it back down that road without breaking one of them.
I hope these days, that my Grandma knows I didn't hate her, and that I don't hate anything. I hope these days that my Grandma can see me happy, see me baking, and feel my respect. And I know, true in my heart, that her hand is on mine with every stir of the spoon. That I can hear her absently humming in the kitchen while I bake. That love is the most important ingredient in any confection. And that she taught me how the smell of love baking lingers long after the crumbs have been wiped away.
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Aunt Helen's Pumpkin Bread - FOUR (4) LOAVES - ON SALE NOW!!
