Beauty & Sweat
Grandma and grandpa's favorite creative spaces
GRANDPA’S FIELDS AND WORK SHOP
In a way, grandpa Roland’s galley of a work shop and long green fields were his hall of fame. He kept his shop well organized and it probably hasn’t been touched since his departure from earth thirty-seven years ago. Things are still hanging from nails that he put there and the only difference is more cobwebs, a little more rust, a lot more dust (heaps and yards of soda-pop cans and big-gulp cups we hauled to the dump before this photo was taken).
The view from all three windows above grandpa’s workbench look out on green pastures and the barn indicating he planned his shop well and spent lots of time in this hall as he kept an eye on his herd. Inside the shop, the walls and shelves are lined with grandpa’s ancient tools. His tools required elbow-grease; hand saws, hand drills, presses with gears and levers. These things required muscle, sinew and grit, he used every one. Oil and sawdust were grandpa’s cologne of choice. It is fun and a privilege to walk through, to touch and imagine grandpa in his overalls in this dusty space grabbing a tool, taking it over in front of the window, while his beloved cows milled about contentedly chewing their cud in the barnyard. Grandpa Roland had the vintage gift (which almost every person carried if born before, or in the late 1800’s) of being able to fix things that broke and build things from scratch. There are mended and modified metal tools hanging on the beams. We are finding wooden benches and cupboards that have been stored in the barns that have Grandpas fingerprints all over them. Sturdy and yet nice looking.
We’ve found a glass flask or two, not boldly out front, but whispering from behind a lineup of oil cans just inside the door. To me, grandpa’s kindness shown above all. He was quiet and near perfect. To me. He loved his family and his six grand children. I hear from his three boys though, that he could be hard on them. This made me a little sad to hear, but sometimes grand children wear rose colored glasses when it comes to their grandparents. It is as it should be I think. Grandpa was always kind to, The Six of Us. A second chance to do better and all that.
He worked hard and took care of a very sick wife. Brucellosis. Grandma was fragile and often in bed from weakness. I understand grandpa. I too, take care of a beautiful someone who needs much care. I can relate. Life is hard. Now that I am able to spend more time on this peaceful plot of land that they called home; I’m so glad they all had this place to walk, the clean air to breathe and the amazing views of Shasta and Goose Nest to calm and ground. Quiet spaces in nature help us recharge and heal. Because…life can be hard and creation offers a soft place to land.
No one comes to mind in Daddy’s line up of relatives that were extroverts and I can’t think of any of Mama’s that were introverts. So, we come by our love of quiet and stillness honestly through our paternal line. It is DNA for sure. Introvert’ism and loving quiet spaces comes to us through the blood.
The calm we all feel on The Home Place connects us to these quiet people. It seems, in order for introverts to thrive, we need peace and quiet, and it would seem they understood this. We are all feeling the beauty of this late in life gift.
Grandpa did everything slowly, he walked slowly and drove his pickup truck as if it were a horse drawn buggy. He had a heart to help and would come inching down our long drive way in his sage green ford pickup; happy to tinker and help daddy roof our monster of a barn, or unload wood to keep us all warm in the winter. It was always good to see grandpa’s green truck coming steadily down the brown ribbon of a road that ran through the ranch (we kids didn’t have to hide from grandpa, but strangers…another story). If something broke, he and daddy could fix it with a few tools, brute strength, a torch and maybe a welder. Seeing daddy and grandpa working together, felt right and brought a sense of steadiness and security to the ranch.
Daddy went to mechanic school at OTI; today called OIT. It served him well. He could manufacture parts for his outdated farm machinery using spare metal, a welder and ingenuity. He followed his dad in this practice. Then, Daddy taught his six children how to change the oil in our vehicles and how to fix a flat tire; how to use what we had and make broken things work, or tear it apart and transform it into something useful. We know how to work hard and fix things. Grandpa’s shop and daddy’s tutelage will be useful to us, as we extend, or lend our older hands to the centurion we call, The Home Place.
Our linage is long in the can-do, make-do, work hard, love your family vein. That is true wealth.
GRANDMA’S LIVING ART and OIL PAINTINGS:
We are making headway in Grandma’s once beauty filled, now bramble covered flower garden. We’ve made a start. We will honor grandma by setting her happy place aright after all the decades of no tending, no water, no love. We are collecting seeds of flowers we once saw growing in this beautiful spot now almost void of flowers…save the overrunning of Lilac bushes, which we all love. It is a very large endeavor. This job will require hacking, slashing, burning and hauling away very heavy carcass of large downed trees, raking, digging, planting, etc.
We all remember walking through her swept clean garden paths as she pointed out flowers and bushes to we six, her only grandchildren. Such variety. These days are so connecting to the loved ones who stewarded this piece of earth with a devotion to natural methods. Those of us stewarding it now have the privilege of listening to the past echos of two generations before us. What was their vision? How can we improve and still hold to their high naturalist standards? Photos, letters, magazine clippings and memories are proving helpful.
Grandma’s flower gardens looked very eclectic, or old fashioned. Purposefully planted around her well trodden paths using any container she could find, old buckets, wash tubs and broken pottery. She made these un useful things beautiful by filling them with foliage. Her yard was a labyrinth lined with trees, flowers and flowering shrubs. This may be the reason I love a well planned path today. There is something about diversity and a little wildness in these spaces, a little mystery to uncover that holds even more intrigue for me. I like a little wild. Maybe grandma did too. And I like seeing how Grandma and Grandpa lived, what they valued, what they planted in this soil as we go poking around and snooping into their horticulture-business.
If they were still with us, they would never allow. Never. And if they did allow, they’d be very very nervous. Some of my siblings helped my uncle clean out and repair his single wide trailer years ago (it was fantastic), but he never allowed it again and it desperately needed it. I am glad they are not all pressed-up-to and peeking through the old green screen door, though, maybe they are.
We dream a little at the front gate. I’m sure our creative grandma stood at this gate plotting. What to plant, transplant, what to give special attention to? Giving thought to balance and beauty. She was an artist. We carry that part of her in us.
What would they think of their six grandkids putzing around with gray hair flying, lifting lids, opening wired shut gates and jars, old metal cans, barn doors, filling garbage bag after bag, tugging on bales of overgrowth…?
I imagine, in the end they will be very proud of our efforts. We found a beefy light turquoise bench grandpa made in the chicken coop. We will place it in grandma’s cottage garden so perhaps she and grandpa’s gentle spirits will come alight once in a while (after the dust settles) and the whole family will enjoy grandma’s restored garden offering up its quiet healing beauty once again.
Grandma also painted. She left us many framed pieces that were in mama and daddy’s home, now our homes and some we are uncovering on the home place with charcoal burned edges that came out of the fire. Our faces as our eyes see them for the first time…. Seeing the brush strokes she put to canvas; started paintings she never finished. Perhaps one of us will take oil paints, and a slim brush to these pieces and work with grandma to finish them. The time she put into her art, I’m sure brought healing and peace (as most creative endeavors do). Her frail tired body engaged in something less strenuous than planting and tugging on weeds. Maybe painting fought for her health amidst her malady.
I’d say their quiet lifestyle, artistic outlets and puttering about in fields and flower gardens served them well. Grandpa lived to be 89, Grandma 94.
So here’s to working hard, sitting on garden benches watching butterflies, spring picnics and finding joy in it all as we endeavor to live quiet and productive lives.