Thus says the Lord of hosts: Old men and old women shall again sit in the streets of Jerusalem, each with staff in hand because of their great age. And the streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls playing in its streets.
Zechariah 8:4-5
Granny was one of the craftiest people I ever met. Never did we visit her without some craft-type project being presented to us. Usually, they were quite fun, and often they would be based around our faith and the church. I have no doubt that many of her projects, out of a sense of self-preservation, were to keep us out of trouble, but with her it was mostly just for fun. There was even an occasion where she took me along in my teens to visit a nursing home where she volunteered with the residents there to do crafts; everyone did crafts with Granny no matter how old or young they were.
One of the homes that she and my grandfather lived in was a split-level with a large wooden porch on the back. Descending down from the porch via the stairs would put you in the midst of a large, grassy back yard bordered on the back side by a small stream. One of the little “projects” that Granny dreamed up for me was fishing in that stream. Never mind the fact that the stream wasn’t large enough for most minnows, much less a fish, but when you have imagination who needs reality?
From among the various limbs that I found in the back yard, Granny helped me to select an appropriate “fishing pole”. We took it back to the house and tied a piece of fishing line to it. Now, being four years old I really didn’t understand the difference between fishing line and binders’ twine, and I definitely did not understand what difference it made to the fish, so I went with it. Granny cut off about a 5 foot length of binders twine and affixed it to the end of my “fishing pole.” Granny, in her infinite wisdom, convinced me that a hook probably wasn’t necessary for fishing from her creek, so we didn’t even look for something that would pass for a hook. As for bait, this was the most amusing part. Even at that point in the 1960’s, many companies had adopted the practice of using foam peanuts for packaging material. To Granny, and to me, these had the oddly similar appearance to worms. Granny took one of my “worms” and tied it to the line, and now I was ready to fish.
I headed off across the back yard, and made my way to the small stream. To Granny’s relief, I was quite content to sit and drown my “worm” in that small stream and while away the hours. I was able to just sit on the bank and enjoy life, at least until my attention span dissipated. Once that happened, which had to have been at least 10 minutes later, it was on again.
Funny thing about shallow streams; they are fun. I was able to climb around in the stream and turn over rocks looking for crawdads. I was able to see if I could find any other bait that may wriggle like what most people would call black snakes. I was able to test my immunity to poison ivy. At the end of it all, I was able to test the cleaning power of Granny’s washing machine. I am glad to say that it had enough power for even my messes.
Visiting Granny and Granddaddy in that home I was introduced to one of my favorite people in the entire world, EVER, the ice cream man. For those who are unindoctrinated in the ways of the world, the ice cream man so totally rocks. I had never experienced such a phenomenon, a man who brings ice cream to you in a great big truck and a gazillion different flavors. My concept of what heaven must be like suddenly and unexpectedly exploded into reality.
We heard him coming from quite some distance long before we saw him. I had never heard that kind of music simply wafting through the neighborhood before. It was a tinkling and repetitive droning of “All Around the Mulberry Bush”, and crazy loud.
Granny had pressed fifty cents into my grubby palm and had instructed me to go stand beside the road in front of her house. The sound of the music gradually increased in volume as the anticipated arrival of the ice cream man approached; it was torture, but I waited. Finally, there he came in a large white truck. Now, this was not the stereotypical ice cream truck of today that is a panel van with a large window in the back that the operator sticks his head through to ask what you want. Nope, this was a truck; a pickup truck with a big chest freezer in the back of it like you would have in a home.
The driver of the truck came to a halt directly in front of me and got out of his truck. He came around behind the truck and climbed up into it, but he did not turn off the truck or the music. Although I had no clue about why he left it all running at the time I do understand now; it was all to keep that massive freezer running. The engine roared and the music bellowed such that people in the neighboring county had no doubt the ice cream man was here.
My comprehension of the varieties of ice cream was limited, at best. My understanding of varieties was pretty much exhausted at vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. Plastered on the side of his truck were pictures of such varieties and styles that my mind was well and truly blown. I was prepared to simply stand there and stare for hours until I finally made my choice; the ice cream man, however, was not.
He was gruff and just a bit impatient, and bellowed down to me to tell him what ice cream I wanted. With the sounds of the truck and the music I had no clue what he was yelling at me about so I replied with the typical reply of a four-year-old, “What?” My voice, however, was not the operatic voice of Pavarotti and did not carry far at all so a comedy of errors ensued where both of us are shouting back and forth to each other, “What!?!”
In frustration, my friend, the ice cream man, eventually shoved a cup of vanilla ice cream and a flat wooden spoon in my hand and took my fifty cents. Of course, that was an event in and of itself since I barely came to the top of the wheels in height and he could not lean over far enough to reach me. It required him to come down out of the back of the truck so that he and I were able to come in contact with each other. With ice cream in hand I left satisfied to return to Granny’s house where she had been watching the entire event unfold with glee and not very well controlled laughter.
As I enjoyed my ice cream Granny prepared for the next craft that would hopefully keep me occupied for more than about ten minutes. Of course, I was completely oblivious to that fact because ice cream is just awesome. Once I did finish my ice cream, both the part that made it in me and the part that made it on me, I did require significant cleaning before Granny would be comfortable for me to participate in any activity, or touch anything in her house.
Once the prerequisites of cleaning were accomplished Granny gathered me up again, and sitting before here were the components necessary for our next activity. She had two handkerchiefs (well-used but clean), binder’s twine, and a rock. Although it may sound like the beginning of a great joke or an episode of MacGyver it really did produce and awesome craft.
Granny had me place the rock in the center of one of the handkerchiefs and pull the sides up around it. Then, with significant help from Granny, we tied 4 pieces of the binder’s twine to the now weighted handkerchief. Then each of those pieces of twine were connected to each of the four corners of the second handkerchief. It was probably the simplest and quickest craft I had ever done with her; I had fully expected to be at it for hours (not that I really understood what an hour was). But, we actually were done in all of about 10 minutes.
With the completed craft in hand she escorted me to the back yard and had me throw my new project into the air. That should have been the easy part, but it still took me several tries to get it off the ground. Once successfully launched the craft sailed into the air then the assembled projected lightly floated back to the ground since my parachute had opened. This was AWESOME!!
For the next hour plus, I launched and relaunched my parachute repeatedly with an extreme amount of glee. With an uncle in the Army, I had romanticized what it means to be in the military, and envisioned him parachuting into his objective over and over again with soldierly precision and expertise. Granny had no idea that this would be such an incredible toy for me, but she struck pay dirt with this one; I was occupied for a significant amount of time.
Later on that afternoon my parents came to retrieve my sister and me from our grandparents and I was still enthralled with my new toy, and especially the fact that I had made it (truth be told I think I actually watched it being made but in my mind I made it).
As my mother came through the door to greet my sister and me, I came rushing at her with my new toy in hand, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy look!! I made a chute-a-par!!” This was exclaimed as I ran through the house hoisting my new toy in my hand, grubby with the dirt from the back yard, and with barely enough time for my mother to stop me from wrapping the same grubby hands around her.
My mother looked to her mother, my Granny, to figure out what on earth I was talking about. Granny was barely able to contain her laughter and she explained over me that it was actually a parachute, not a chute-a-par. My mother never missed a beat and quickly applauded me for the great job that I had done.
Of the experiences during that particular stay with my grandmother the thing that still sticks out to me the most is not the gift in the form of crafts, nor the great food, nor even the ability to get away with a little more than I normally would have at home. No, the greatest gift was her time. She spent time with me, one on one and gave me herself and her love. I walked away that day with memories that lasted many times longer than my chute-a-par ever would.
Zechariah 8:4-5
Granny was one of the craftiest people I ever met. Never did we visit her without some craft-type project being presented to us. Usually, they were quite fun, and often they would be based around our faith and the church. I have no doubt that many of her projects, out of a sense of self-preservation, were to keep us out of trouble, but with her it was mostly just for fun. There was even an occasion where she took me along in my teens to visit a nursing home where she volunteered with the residents there to do crafts; everyone did crafts with Granny no matter how old or young they were.
One of the homes that she and my grandfather lived in was a split-level with a large wooden porch on the back. Descending down from the porch via the stairs would put you in the midst of a large, grassy back yard bordered on the back side by a small stream. One of the little “projects” that Granny dreamed up for me was fishing in that stream. Never mind the fact that the stream wasn’t large enough for most minnows, much less a fish, but when you have imagination who needs reality?
From among the various limbs that I found in the back yard, Granny helped me to select an appropriate “fishing pole”. We took it back to the house and tied a piece of fishing line to it. Now, being four years old I really didn’t understand the difference between fishing line and binders’ twine, and I definitely did not understand what difference it made to the fish, so I went with it. Granny cut off about a 5 foot length of binders twine and affixed it to the end of my “fishing pole.” Granny, in her infinite wisdom, convinced me that a hook probably wasn’t necessary for fishing from her creek, so we didn’t even look for something that would pass for a hook. As for bait, this was the most amusing part. Even at that point in the 1960’s, many companies had adopted the practice of using foam peanuts for packaging material. To Granny, and to me, these had the oddly similar appearance to worms. Granny took one of my “worms” and tied it to the line, and now I was ready to fish.
I headed off across the back yard, and made my way to the small stream. To Granny’s relief, I was quite content to sit and drown my “worm” in that small stream and while away the hours. I was able to just sit on the bank and enjoy life, at least until my attention span dissipated. Once that happened, which had to have been at least 10 minutes later, it was on again.
Funny thing about shallow streams; they are fun. I was able to climb around in the stream and turn over rocks looking for crawdads. I was able to see if I could find any other bait that may wriggle like what most people would call black snakes. I was able to test my immunity to poison ivy. At the end of it all, I was able to test the cleaning power of Granny’s washing machine. I am glad to say that it had enough power for even my messes.
Visiting Granny and Granddaddy in that home I was introduced to one of my favorite people in the entire world, EVER, the ice cream man. For those who are unindoctrinated in the ways of the world, the ice cream man so totally rocks. I had never experienced such a phenomenon, a man who brings ice cream to you in a great big truck and a gazillion different flavors. My concept of what heaven must be like suddenly and unexpectedly exploded into reality.
We heard him coming from quite some distance long before we saw him. I had never heard that kind of music simply wafting through the neighborhood before. It was a tinkling and repetitive droning of “All Around the Mulberry Bush”, and crazy loud.
Granny had pressed fifty cents into my grubby palm and had instructed me to go stand beside the road in front of her house. The sound of the music gradually increased in volume as the anticipated arrival of the ice cream man approached; it was torture, but I waited. Finally, there he came in a large white truck. Now, this was not the stereotypical ice cream truck of today that is a panel van with a large window in the back that the operator sticks his head through to ask what you want. Nope, this was a truck; a pickup truck with a big chest freezer in the back of it like you would have in a home.
The driver of the truck came to a halt directly in front of me and got out of his truck. He came around behind the truck and climbed up into it, but he did not turn off the truck or the music. Although I had no clue about why he left it all running at the time I do understand now; it was all to keep that massive freezer running. The engine roared and the music bellowed such that people in the neighboring county had no doubt the ice cream man was here.
My comprehension of the varieties of ice cream was limited, at best. My understanding of varieties was pretty much exhausted at vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. Plastered on the side of his truck were pictures of such varieties and styles that my mind was well and truly blown. I was prepared to simply stand there and stare for hours until I finally made my choice; the ice cream man, however, was not.
He was gruff and just a bit impatient, and bellowed down to me to tell him what ice cream I wanted. With the sounds of the truck and the music I had no clue what he was yelling at me about so I replied with the typical reply of a four-year-old, “What?” My voice, however, was not the operatic voice of Pavarotti and did not carry far at all so a comedy of errors ensued where both of us are shouting back and forth to each other, “What!?!”
In frustration, my friend, the ice cream man, eventually shoved a cup of vanilla ice cream and a flat wooden spoon in my hand and took my fifty cents. Of course, that was an event in and of itself since I barely came to the top of the wheels in height and he could not lean over far enough to reach me. It required him to come down out of the back of the truck so that he and I were able to come in contact with each other. With ice cream in hand I left satisfied to return to Granny’s house where she had been watching the entire event unfold with glee and not very well controlled laughter.
As I enjoyed my ice cream Granny prepared for the next craft that would hopefully keep me occupied for more than about ten minutes. Of course, I was completely oblivious to that fact because ice cream is just awesome. Once I did finish my ice cream, both the part that made it in me and the part that made it on me, I did require significant cleaning before Granny would be comfortable for me to participate in any activity, or touch anything in her house.
Once the prerequisites of cleaning were accomplished Granny gathered me up again, and sitting before here were the components necessary for our next activity. She had two handkerchiefs (well-used but clean), binder’s twine, and a rock. Although it may sound like the beginning of a great joke or an episode of MacGyver it really did produce and awesome craft.
Granny had me place the rock in the center of one of the handkerchiefs and pull the sides up around it. Then, with significant help from Granny, we tied 4 pieces of the binder’s twine to the now weighted handkerchief. Then each of those pieces of twine were connected to each of the four corners of the second handkerchief. It was probably the simplest and quickest craft I had ever done with her; I had fully expected to be at it for hours (not that I really understood what an hour was). But, we actually were done in all of about 10 minutes.
With the completed craft in hand she escorted me to the back yard and had me throw my new project into the air. That should have been the easy part, but it still took me several tries to get it off the ground. Once successfully launched the craft sailed into the air then the assembled projected lightly floated back to the ground since my parachute had opened. This was AWESOME!!
For the next hour plus, I launched and relaunched my parachute repeatedly with an extreme amount of glee. With an uncle in the Army, I had romanticized what it means to be in the military, and envisioned him parachuting into his objective over and over again with soldierly precision and expertise. Granny had no idea that this would be such an incredible toy for me, but she struck pay dirt with this one; I was occupied for a significant amount of time.
Later on that afternoon my parents came to retrieve my sister and me from our grandparents and I was still enthralled with my new toy, and especially the fact that I had made it (truth be told I think I actually watched it being made but in my mind I made it).
As my mother came through the door to greet my sister and me, I came rushing at her with my new toy in hand, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy look!! I made a chute-a-par!!” This was exclaimed as I ran through the house hoisting my new toy in my hand, grubby with the dirt from the back yard, and with barely enough time for my mother to stop me from wrapping the same grubby hands around her.
My mother looked to her mother, my Granny, to figure out what on earth I was talking about. Granny was barely able to contain her laughter and she explained over me that it was actually a parachute, not a chute-a-par. My mother never missed a beat and quickly applauded me for the great job that I had done.
Of the experiences during that particular stay with my grandmother the thing that still sticks out to me the most is not the gift in the form of crafts, nor the great food, nor even the ability to get away with a little more than I normally would have at home. No, the greatest gift was her time. She spent time with me, one on one and gave me herself and her love. I walked away that day with memories that lasted many times longer than my chute-a-par ever would.
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