Quietly celebrate simplicity

Ninety-one years ago, my Gram married my Grandpa.  The service was held on a Sunday morning before church at her parent’s house. She wore a new dress, made by her mom – nice enough for her wedding, but practical for everyday wear.  There was no party or celebration.

Days later, she left with my Grandpa.  He would be working for the telephone company in Oklahoma – a job he would have for decades. 

Months later, the stock market crashed. 

We read about this event in history books. 

She says, they were too poor to notice a difference.  They lived in tiny, one-room apartments.  She remembers it being so hot, like an oven.  An open window and a fan just blew hot air.  She remembers sitting, wondering exactly what to do as a new bride.  She was lonely.  She cooked.  She cleaned. 

They had no extra money.  And one afternoon, they had no milk.  She sat on the stoop and “matched pennies” with the young man next door to have money to buy milk.

One morning this week

I left before it was fully light outside in an attempt to beat the crowds to one of the big box stores in our neighborhood.  I needed milk and eggs. 

As I drove, my mind wandered back to my Gram’s stories of those times in her early marriage.  I wondered what my Gram would think about the last few days – about my search for milk, eggs and the ever-elusive toilet paper, about droves of people drifting through the aisles at the store, hoarding necessities.

Would she compare it to her times of hardship, to matching pennies, to tiny apartments and to government rations?

I drive by a smaller store on my way.  It still isn’t quite light, but it’s already crowded.  The streetlights and otherwise empty streets feel eerie. 

I pull into my planned store. 

The parking lot is full — people with panic and fear on their faces competing for kitchen basics. 

I don’t get out of the car just yet.  Instead, I pause to imagine myself back at Gram’s house.  I’m at the bar in her kitchen, spinning myself slowly in her swivel chairs as I watch her cook.  She’s added an egg and a sprinkle of flour to the leftover mashed potatoes from last night’s family dinner.  She drops a scoop into the hot oil.  It sizzles.  She waits and flips the potato cake at the perfect golden-brown time.  We’ll eat homemade applesauce, pink and sweet, with the potatoes.  She’ll pull frozen cookies from the deep freeze for dessert.  In my memories, I hear her stories of good people during hard times. 

I think I know what she’d say if she heard the recent news stories.  She’d shake her head slightly, give just a hint of an eye roll and cluck of her tongue in disapproval.  Most of all, though, she would pray diligently for those around her. 

And, always, she would offer a cup of coffee or a sweet treat when someone popped by to say hello.

I step out and wonder.

I step out of my reverie and into the big box store, but not before I wonder what my son and grandchildren will say about this time….  Ninety-one years ago, she got up before dawn to drive to a big box store for milk and eggs and toilet paper.  And on one of the mornings of the quarantine, she made her famous chocolate chip pancakes.

Friends, let’s quietly celebrate simplicity this week.  Let’s celebrate the memories of those that taught us grit and make memories with those we hope are learning from us. 

Hugs and blessings, Bethany