Then they began to wonder why. Why was such a large family so quiet? Even during Dad’s tour in Vietnam, there was not a single hiccup.
What the neighbors didn’t bank on was Mom’s secret weapon—a weapon that would have brought Genghis Khan to his knees. Flattened evil empires. Rewritten history.
Her secret weapon, for lack of a more technical term, was “the look.”
I believe there was a patent pending on it at the time.
This is how it worked.
First, the eyebrows arched. Then the lips tightened into one thin, rigid line. The eyes, narrowed and unflinching, turned to glass.
Whenever I was caught in mid-mischief, there she was, armed with that baleful stare. I was a fish about to be slapped onto butcher paper if I dared twitch. None of my brothers and sisters had the nerve to challenge “the look,” so I could only imagine the consequences of crossing that line. I was certain that it meant being hauled away to a dark, damp place for bad kids, where a cackling witch pinched their fingers to see if they were plump enough to be on the menu. You can be assured that I never once attempted to confirm this.
There were even times Mom had the eerie ability to foresee mischief barely hatching in my brain. One look in my direction whittled my plans, along with my constitution, to sawdust. Like the Nat King Cole song, my only alternative was to straighten up and fly right—for the time being.
As it always is with army life, after three years and one more sibling added to the family, we followed Dad to his new assignment, where we were once again placed in generic housing on post. To this day, my parents cherish the friendships they collected while living on that treelined street in Pennsylvania. I’ve never forgotten the sweet man next door who always seemed to have a pocketful of butterscotch candy for us when he mowed his lawn.
A few years ago, my three-year-old niece was acting bratty at the dinner table, which solicited a five-star glare from her grandmother. Our forks poised in midair, we waited awkwardly for the little girl’s reaction. Then . . .
“Grandma!” she said, giggling. “You’re funny!”
We gasped.
She had breached the rules and . . . and she was still living!
Even more shocking, though, was what I detected on my mother’s face. A trace of defeat. Just enough to make me appreciate how precious that tool must have been to her all these years, the pride she must have felt to be able to discipline a caravan of kids in church, in the store, the park, libraries and museums—all with just one look. Especially in one particular neighborhood that dreaded our arrival.
It’s been said that Mom was the only one in her family who successfully adopted her mother’s glare to control the kids. It must be genetic. The other day my two-year-old was whizzing around at top speed on the Sit-N-Spin during naptime when I opened the door quietly and zeroed in on him with that look. He braked with his heels, hopped off and quickly crawled into bed.
Hmmm. Maybe it’s not too late for that patent after all.
Jennifer Oliver
The Wooden Spoon
Be ever gentle with the children God has given you. Watch over them constantly; reprove them earnestly, but not in anger.
Elihu Burritt
My son and daughter-in-law decided before their children were born that they would not spank. Both had been brought up with disciplinarian parents who believed in using the rod rather than spoiling the child.”
My granddaughter, Jessica, went to Montessori school for a year, and of course they are against corporal punishment as well. Her punishment was mainly time-outs.
One day little Jessica had pushed her mom as far as she could. Carrie was so upset she went to the kitchen and pulled out a wooden spoon from the drawer. Lifting it in the air she said, “Do you see this? This is what my parents used for me.”
Little four-year-old Jessica looked at her with big blue eyes. “They cooked you?”
Beverly Houseman
Out of the Mouths of Babes
It is the will, and not the gift, that makes the giver.
Gotthold E. Lessing
Some things never change. Take, for instance, the capricious nature of desire. Will I never learn? I wondered once more, remembering.
I had been pushing a shopping cart with my almost-four-year-old granddaughter through Target when Tiffany squealed, “Looky! There are shoes just like Dorothy’s!”
Unmistakable excitement filled her voice. My eyes followed Tiffany’s emphatic, pointing finger. There they were, a whole rack of them: ruby slippers sparkling as if sprinkled with scarlet fairy dust. Magical footwear transported straight from the silver-screen Land of Oz. There were gold and silver ones, too, but it was the ruby ones that mesmerized my granddaughter. Naked desire flared in Tiffany’s eyes. When we stopped before the shoe rack, Tiffany reached with longing for a ruby slipper. She turned it over and over with reverence and wonderment.
I could so easily visualize my darling Tiffany dancing a regal waltz in them, dipping and twirling off into that elusive world of dress-up and fantasy that she so often inhabited. Tiffany was a luminous little girl who loved everything swishy and swirly. Glittery and glamorous. Tiaras, high heels, angel wings, taffeta and tulle skirts, feather boas, and sparkling jewelry of every description.
I had already bought Tiffany’s birthday gift only days before. Dedicated to nurturing my granddaughter’s appreciation for the more important things of life, I aimed always—well, almost always—not to overdo the materialistic. But in this case, I pondered, how often does one get such an easy opportunity to fulfill a childhood desire?
Believe it or not, for three days I wrestled with this dilemma. Finally, I returned to the store for the ruby slippers that would surely fulfill Tiffany’s heart’s desire.
Standing at the cash register waiting for my change, I was so delighted that it took an enormous act of will to restrain myself from breaking into a spontaneous tap dance. I couldn’t stop smiling. Strolling out of the store, clutching my precious package as if it contained the crown jewels, I felt absolutely triumphant. Surely there were springs in my shoes. This was one time an unquestioning certainty guaranteed I had found the perfect gift.
On Tiffany’s birthday, I could hardly wait for my granddaughter to open the box containing the slippers. When at last she tore away the bright wrapping paper, the light flooding Tiffany’s face said it all. In an eager instant she slipped her little feet into the sparkling shoes. It was as if they had a life of their own. Suddenly Tiffany minced. She swayed. She strutted. She sashayed. On and on she danced, oblivious to everyone. From all appearances, she couldn’t help herself. She was lost in their spell.
All afternoon Tiffany wore the magic shoes. She couldn’t tear her eyes from them as she played. As the day waned, it was as if she had drained every last bit of magic from them. Every last bit of wonder and joy.
At last dusk descended. Finally wearied by all the excitement, Tiffany crawled into my lap, as she so often did, snuggling close and giving me the best of little granddaughter bear hugs.
“You really enjoy those red slippers, don’t you, honey?”
Tiffany nodded slowly, an expression of sudden gravity sobering her dear little face. Then she paused to ponder for a bit before offering her carefully considered answer.
“Actually, it was the gold ones that I really wanted.”
Jane Elsdon
6
GRANDMA’S
LESSONS
The sacred books of the ancient Persians say: If you would be holy instruct your children, because all the good acts they perform will be imputed to you.
Montesquieu
Granny’s Journey
To know how to grow old is the master work of wisdom.
Henri Frederic Amiel
Deep in my memory as a teenager is my grandmother’s attempt to shake me awake on Sunday mornings. “Oh! Granny, please,” I’d plead. “I’m so tired and sleepy. I’ll go next week. Promise.” At that age, getting in early from a Satu
rday night date so I could stay awake in church on Sunday morning wasn’t on the top of my priority list.
But she’d taunt me, “Well, young lady, why am I not surprised you’re weak from fatigue? Funny thing to me, you’re not too tired to carouse around on Saturday night, but you can’t give the Lord your time on Sunday. Come on now, it won’t do to be late. Get up and get dressed.”
And I would.
Grandmother Nora was a tall, handsome, fashionable woman. When she came to live with my mother, older sister and me, she was active, creative, determined and eighty years old. She’d made a fine reputation for herself as a talented tailor in the early 1920s. It paid the bills as she raised her three daughters. In those days there were few elegant department stores and no boutiques available to women of fashion. Their in-vogue wardrobes came from talented seamstresses like my grandmother.
She still loved sewing and seemed always to be working on a project. She told me she had one more heart’s desire, to make choir robes for her church and give them as her final gift before she died.
Tension reigned with three generations in one small apartment. Granny and I, the oldest and the youngest, became a support team for each other. But even then we often disagreed. Her rules and traditions didn’t fit my generation. At times there was real door-slamming tension between us. I realize now it was because we were so much alike. She saw herself in me and used any effective means, from pressure to bribes, to ensure that her look-alike granddaughter would be equipped with God’s rules. Over time, we formed a truce of love and respect. We were quite a combination: a teenager yearning to fly and a granny whose wings had been clipped by age.
My mother, newly divorced, was also trying to make the best of several difficult situations. Returning to the workforce after many years away, raising two daughters alone and the irritation of her mother’s sewing mess severely tested her patience.
One evening, arriving home later and more frazzled than usual, she looked at Granny’s strewn fabric and with a stern expression said, “Mama, you must quit all this sewing. I simply won’t come home every evening to this mess. Can’t you just enjoy retirement and rest?”
Granny didn’t want an argument. Peace was her game. Without a word, she winked at me and quietly went about cleaning up the room, putting away her sewing machine and packing up fabric. The next day she called a taxi and moved to the rooming house of a lady she knew from her church.
When Mother read the brief note Granny left her, she was shocked and saddened. Although they patched things up, Granny never came back, thinking it best to remain independent as long as she could.
During the next few years, spending many hours with her, I began to experience and understand the great lady as never before. No one else could have prepared me to meet life’s opportunities like she did. I’d go by after school, and later, when I began to work as a model at Neiman Marcus, she was eager to hear all the exciting details of the clothes and fashion shows. As we shared our lives, I watched her finish twenty-seven heavy, faille burgundy robes with fluted backs for her church choir on her old treadle sewing machine. Listening to the details of her difficult life and her love of her Lord made a great impression on my young mind and guided many of my decisions.
Years later when Granny was diagnosed with cancer, she moved to a small town in Texas where another of her daughters could care for her at home. By that time I’d married, moved to Colorado and had a four-month-old baby.
Granny’s illness was long and extremely agonizing. In those days there weren’t many miracle drugs for pain. Mother kept me posted on my grandmother’s shocking weight loss and described her terrible suffering. Yet, through it all, her faith remained constant.
When the end was near Mother told me Granny wept, saying, “I’m ready to go, but I’ve seen everyone except Ruthie. I must see her.” I was the only one in the family who had found it impossible to make the trip to say good-bye.
Late one night, at home in Colorado, I was jolted awake and found myself sitting upright in bed. Someone had called my name aloud, yet my husband remained asleep beside me. It was Granny’s voice I’d heard. Then I saw her standing in the corner of my dark bedroom. I could see her quite clearly. A shimmering radiance of light shone upon her. She looked just as I remembered her years before, smiling, healthy and vibrant. The love in her eyes for me was a hug that would last through the years. The vision lasted long enough for me to know I was fully awake and reminded me of a quote by Frances Bacon, “If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the hill.”
I did not sleep much more that night, my mind occupied with memories of her.
When Mother called me the next morning to tell me Granny had died in the night, I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t tell her for quite some time that Granny had stopped by to see me as she ended her earthly journey. I was savoring it as my own private moment with someone who had sewn in me seamless faith and love.
Ruth Hancock
Confidence
Much wisdom often goes with fewest words.
Sophocles
Grandmothers have a way of uniting families through traditions. Some pass down favorite recipes and others share their sewing techniques, but the tradition my grandmother gave us was very different. Her favorite T-shirt read, “This is No Ordinary Grandma You’re Dealing With!” And that said it all. Grandma was known by everyone to be an outgoing, witty and feisty woman. So, as you might expect, the tradition she passed on to our family was equally unique.
The summer after my high school graduation was the first time she told me the advice she gave to all the girls in our family. She had taken me shopping in preparation for my first semester of college. As we started toward the department store register with the cart full of everything a dorm room would need, we walked past the lingerie section and she stopped.
“Do you have your red underwear yet?” she asked.
“What? No. . .why?” I stammered, puzzled and embarrassed.
“It’s important for every woman to have at least one pair of red underwear.” She glanced at the appalled look on my face. “To wear on those days when you need that extra bit of confidence. When you have a test, a speech, a job interview or any time you need a self-assurance boost.” Grandma went on to explain her philosophy, that when women have their own personal secrets about their “sassy” red underwear, they somehow feel more powerful and self-assured.
“Only you will know this tidbit of information about yourself, and it will give you a little extra edge of confidence,” Grandma counseled.
Standing in the store discussing my underwear choices with my grandma was extremely embarrassing. I assured her I didn’t need any underwear and convinced her we should leave.
Months later, after my roommate and I had been up all night studying for our first set of final exams, I stumbled into anthropology class and saved her a seat. She hurried in and sat down beside me with a package under her arm. “I picked up the mail on the way to class and we got another package from your grandma!” We were both excited because Grandma often sent us care packages with cookies and goodies, so I ripped open the parcel right there—and yanked out a pair of red underwear! Her note simply said, “Thought you could use these. Love, Gram.”
Classmates snickered and whistled as I desperately tried to stuff the contents back in the package, my face as red as the panties.
Many times after that, when discussing an important upcoming event, one of the girls in our family repeated Grandma’s advice without hesitation, “Don’t forget your red underwear!”
Ten years later Grandma’s time on earth came to an end. As we made plans for her funeral service we decided on a final farewell to honor such an inspiring lady. Her daughters, nieces, granddaughters (and even my college roommate) all shared a common secret that day. The music played softly as we gathered together, holding hands in prayer before entering the chapel. We winked at each other and giggled, then walked down the aisle—each with that “extra edge of confiden
ce.”
Jody Walters
The Pine Tree
Whatever you would have your children become, strive to exhibit in your own lives and conversation.
Lydia H. Sigourney
The Pine Tree Restaurant was a landmark in Bangor, Maine, for over forty years. Located in the heart of downtown and adjacent to the Greyhound bus station, it served regulars and transients from all walks of life. Boasting typical diner fare, the restaurant’s food was good. The desserts were homemade and ample. However, many years after the Pine Tree closed, I learned that the customers didn’t always visit for the food.
Natalie Greer was a tall, rail-thin waitress. Her uniforms were white and crisply starched and always adorned with complementing handkerchief and pin. She wore long sleeves year-round, as her skinny arms made her self-conscious. Proficient at her job, she worked at the Pine Tree for twenty-seven years.
Widowed in her forties, Nat raised six children on her wages and tips. Never one to complain, she provided her family with their needs and more. A smile always graced the face of this attractive waitress, and gentlemen frequently asked her out on dates. Never even considering remarrying, she turned them down with a smile and a style and grace generally reserved for those of a higher social stature.
Kindness was this waitress’s forte. From the wealthiest of customers to the lowliest of kitchen help, Nat treated everyone the same. She looked after those who had difficulty with their jobs there, and she often stayed late teaching them tricks of the trade. In performing this kindness, she made countless friends.
When Nat was finally forced to retire due to complications from asthma, her many friends she’d made throughout the years came to visit her frequently, bearing homemade treats or invitations to go out to lunch or for a Sunday drive. She cherished these moments as she had cherished these friends.