"Bubbling up in our own good time-- online."
Groundwaters Publishing, LLC
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Volume 5 Issue 1
Page 9
Page 9
I read once that resistance can't exist without an opposing factor. My first reaction
was to think what a bunch of hot air that idea was! Then… I remembered the time,
back in 1957, Grandma battled the church board and won without a punch. It was a
small church we attended, nestled on the outskirts of Oakridge, Oregon. (It was
called Willamette City then, now a part of Oakridge.)
My Grandma was a big woman. She must have weighed three hundred pounds,
although she never seemed fat. She appeared soft and fluffy as she moved her
tremendous bulk slowly and gracefully. The gentle smell of flowers and sweetness
lingered behind her. I never heard her utter an angry word.
Grandma dressed in cotton dresses with little flowery prints and an apron that
covered her ample front and sides. When she bent over to take chitlins or pies
from her wood-burning stove you could see where her stockings were rolled at her
knees. No girdles or garter belts for her!
Grandma had thin hair kept sparkling blue-white with Mrs. Stewart’s bluing that
most people used for laundry. Her skin was soft to touch from her nightly rituals
with Oil of Olay. She always looked as if she had delicately applied peaches and
cream to her face and body.
Grandma liked to be outdoors in her big straw hat taking care of her flowers, both
tame and wild. She was as soft and gentle with them as she was with her
canaries. She treated all children with that same delicate touch. Grandma just
meandered through life like a pretty feather floating in the breeze. The church
board thing was rather strange.
My parents and grandparents attended all the church board meetings, which
guaranteed my protesting presence. This particular meeting was to find a teacher
for the frequently rowdy high school group. It was the group I would be joining soon
and secretly looked forward to. What fun they appeared to have challenging adults
and rules. Finding a teacher seemed as difficult as the group was reported to be.
The meeting droned on. My grandmother stood and said that she would take the
class. It must have been nearly five minutes before anyone was able to speak or
move.
The men stammered and the women stuttered, but the message was the same.
Everyone knew the class would send this sweet gentle woman to the loony bin.
They argued with her. They persuaded. They tried to threaten. Grandma just
smiled and nodded and said she would teach the class. She didn't even recognize
the battle. It was decided she could try but they meant for her to fail.
We both started the high school group the same Sunday. I was already chattering
away to some friends when Grandma wafted through the door. She looked around
the room and spoke in a voice like whipped cream. “No one in the church wanted
me to teach this class,” she said. “They didn't think I could control the ill-mannered
children. I reckon none of those children are here today. I see only polite and
intelligent young men and women.”
Grandma taught the high school class for years. She was like the green willow,
bending with the winds, with roots so deep she never yielded an inch.
was to think what a bunch of hot air that idea was! Then… I remembered the time,
back in 1957, Grandma battled the church board and won without a punch. It was a
small church we attended, nestled on the outskirts of Oakridge, Oregon. (It was
called Willamette City then, now a part of Oakridge.)
My Grandma was a big woman. She must have weighed three hundred pounds,
although she never seemed fat. She appeared soft and fluffy as she moved her
tremendous bulk slowly and gracefully. The gentle smell of flowers and sweetness
lingered behind her. I never heard her utter an angry word.
Grandma dressed in cotton dresses with little flowery prints and an apron that
covered her ample front and sides. When she bent over to take chitlins or pies
from her wood-burning stove you could see where her stockings were rolled at her
knees. No girdles or garter belts for her!
Grandma had thin hair kept sparkling blue-white with Mrs. Stewart’s bluing that
most people used for laundry. Her skin was soft to touch from her nightly rituals
with Oil of Olay. She always looked as if she had delicately applied peaches and
cream to her face and body.
Grandma liked to be outdoors in her big straw hat taking care of her flowers, both
tame and wild. She was as soft and gentle with them as she was with her
canaries. She treated all children with that same delicate touch. Grandma just
meandered through life like a pretty feather floating in the breeze. The church
board thing was rather strange.
My parents and grandparents attended all the church board meetings, which
guaranteed my protesting presence. This particular meeting was to find a teacher
for the frequently rowdy high school group. It was the group I would be joining soon
and secretly looked forward to. What fun they appeared to have challenging adults
and rules. Finding a teacher seemed as difficult as the group was reported to be.
The meeting droned on. My grandmother stood and said that she would take the
class. It must have been nearly five minutes before anyone was able to speak or
move.
The men stammered and the women stuttered, but the message was the same.
Everyone knew the class would send this sweet gentle woman to the loony bin.
They argued with her. They persuaded. They tried to threaten. Grandma just
smiled and nodded and said she would teach the class. She didn't even recognize
the battle. It was decided she could try but they meant for her to fail.
We both started the high school group the same Sunday. I was already chattering
away to some friends when Grandma wafted through the door. She looked around
the room and spoke in a voice like whipped cream. “No one in the church wanted
me to teach this class,” she said. “They didn't think I could control the ill-mannered
children. I reckon none of those children are here today. I see only polite and
intelligent young men and women.”
Grandma taught the high school class for years. She was like the green willow,
bending with the winds, with roots so deep she never yielded an inch.
| Grandma's Quiet Triumph By Wanda Edwards |