She wasn’t your typical grandma.
Mama could tell you the best kinds of stories; exciting stories from her childhood about cowboys and Indians and a dog named Flossy.
She did an Indian dance she learned as a kid from one of the North Dakota’s, and even into her eighties, she would do the jig sitting on the kitchen chair and sing the song in the tribal language.
She told me stories of the great depression and raising her ten children as a single parent. The depression was terrible, and for people like her, it was so much harder.
Mama did laundry for the YMCA, baked pies to sell, and ironed clothes to make money. The older kids quit school and got jobs waitressing, and the boys deliver newspapers and did odd jobs when they could.
Eventually, all five of her sons would serve in World War II, and by the grace of God, they all came home, physically in one piece.
Stories of an oversized German Sheppard named Major and how he would follow the twins everywhere, and when it got late, Major would go home without them.
Mama would say, “Major, where are the boys?” He would do a turnabout and out the door and lead her right to them.
It seemed as if the twins were always late getting home, often after dark. To save time, the boys would cut through a thickly wooded lot. Mama kept warning them it was unsafe, but they could take care of themselves. If they would not listen, she’d find another way to get them not to venture into the woods. She tried everything, and now she was desperate.
“There are ghosts in the woods,” she told them.
“Nah, there are no such things as ghosts.” they laughed. “You’ll see. One of these days, you’ll cut through there, and you will see one,” she said.
If they would not listen, she’d find another way to get them not to venture into the woods. She tried everything.
Mama was tough, but she was also funny and fun-loving.
She didn’t have to wait long until they were late again, and it was dark.
Mama was ready. She grabbed a white sheet and ran out the door, headed to the words. She positioned herself by a clump of trees and waited. Then she heard them running in her direction, talking and laughing. She slipped the sheet over her head, and then when they got closer, she stepped out from behind the tree into the moonlight and groaned her best ghostly, “Oooooo.” slowly raising her arms up and down.
Their screams shot around the block. They ran, stumbling and falling over each other, then took off in different directions.
Mama quickly ran back to the house and tossed the sheet. Minutes later, the boys slammed the back door so hard it almost flung off the hinges.
Their voices producing ear-piercing screams, “We saw a ghost!” Both were yelling, each trying to tell their near-death experience.
“You cut through the woods, didn’t you?” mama asked them. “Yes, but we…”
“Didn’t I tell you:?” she asked.
“We’re never going to go into the woods ever again!!” they vowed. Mama smiled.
It was her way of keeping her kids safe, even if she had to “scare them straight.” It worked.
Her life stories and experiences were part of who she was. It made her special. My grandmother raised me, and I think it makes me the best part of who I am today.
God gives us amazing people, and their memory stays with us for a lifetime.
The take-away: Love has creative ways to protect the ones we love. God has his ways, too.
