Reality Check
Coby LaRue is the editor of the Alleghany News and writes an editorial piece, Reality Check, each week. I'm not always fond of his work, but the piece this week hit pretty close to home. I had to say goodbye to my own grandmother, Fannie Lineback, in her 88th year. I've unpacked the boxes, framed the needlework, stored the letters, drank coffee from the mugs, and remembered the Christmases of my youth. She could not live forever, of course, but her death still hurts as much this very moment as it did on that sad winter day in 1978.
I hope you can get as much from reading Coby's piece, reproduced here in its entirety, as I as did.
Unpacking a few pieces of the past
by Coby LaRue
After all this time, I finally had occasion to go back through some of my grandmother’s things.
If you were reading this column when she died a few years ago, you might recall there was quite a fuss over her things. Although she didn’t have much, everyone wanted to make sure they got their fair share and just a little bit more. I must point out that not everyone in the family felt that way. Some were just not interested in having these things. They probably weren’t as sentimental as me.
I know I got more than my share. None of the other grandchildren got anything unless it came through their parents. I didn’t do it by any nefarious means, though. I used one of the very things that caused all the uproar to ensure the family heritage wasn’t strewn to the four winds: Money.
I simply paid those who inherited things for the items they received, so that I could ‘keep them in the family.’
My only uncle on my mother’s side sold everything he received to me and my sister, who subsequently divided the items. She and I are like-minded on these matters. One aunt divided her inheritance with her children, one of which took the items immediately to a local antique store. I can understand that—what good is heritage if you need bread? Another aunt had things to sell and another gave some things to me that she didn’t want. The end result was that I ended up with a good number of family heirlooms and all it cost me was money. I’ll trade my money for preserving the past any time.
At any rate, I went back through some of the items last week and pulled out my grandmother’s old china. It is green pattern, featuring a nice border of flowers and vines around a white china center, made in England. I was very pleased that this one item fell into my hands, although I doubt it is worth much in dollar value. So far, I have located the plates, coffee cups and saucers and dessert plates, but not the bowls and serving pieces. I’m pretty sure that I have them, I just don’t remember where they are right now. All of the things I got from her estate are stored in the barn and building at my parents’ house. I have numerous pieces of her owl collection, several glass collectible things, a few brass bells and decorations, letters and embroidery work and a few photographs.
But, like I said, one of my favorites is the china. I’m always pleased when I see it, mainly because I can remember eating from the plates and bowls as a child. Oh, there are chips here and there, but they probably held up so well because my grandmother never got them out unless it was a special day.
As I unpacked the pieces from their case, a simple cardboard container that once housed bananas, I noticed the date on the paper. “Sporting News, March, 1996.” I probably furnished the paper these are wrapped with, I thought. A mouse had taken up residence in one of the teacups and subsequently moved out.
As I took off the papers and laid the china out on the table, I remembered her and the way she used to cook. She didn’t just prepare the food, she prepared it with love. Well, love and fat meat, usually. Every time I eat pinto beans I find myself wishing I had some of her chow-chow (pepper relish). We make it at home and it is mighty fine, but it is very hard to compare with the taste of memory.
I remember her buzzing around the kitchen, grace in motion, nimble hands using worn old butcher knives and deftly moving food from pot to dish without spilling a drop. She was always going everywhere in a hurry. I can still remember one Christmas meal; I can almost smell the food. She, in a blue checked apron, had a plate of hand-rolled biscuits on the table (a little hint of powdery flour still on top, a decoration), a big bowl of macaroni and tomatoes with big peeled tomatoes and a big dollup of real butter in the center, fresh pork chops and mashed potatoes with pork gravy (for the health-conscious). There was always coffee in the percolator on the stove, and it was strong and hot. Of course, by the time she got finished adding sugar and milk, there wasn’t much coffee in her cup. I guess that’s why she made it so strong. It was sort of like mountain espresso.
You could also enjoy the ‘sides,’ like the earlier-mentioned chow-chow and homemade sauerkraut, usually made in the house in a crock covered by a pillow case. She also had a flair with pickled beans, beets and canned fruits.
Among my other memories are that she never ate until everyone else was finished and that she always made too much food, just in case someone else showed up. In a way, I think my sense of family died with her — the fragmented remains of my extended family seem more distant now. She was the tie that kept us together as one unit.
When you have five children and each of them has a spouse and children, Christmas dinner is more than just a little meal. It’s a circus.
Luckily, she usually didn’t have everyone over at one time, but people were everywhere.
Since her death, I’ve often wished I could have done something more for her, although I did do a little. She was always serving others with her time, energy and even finances. That’s why she never had much of her own.
After she had a stroke and was bound to a wheelchair, she was really unhappy for the remainder of her life. But I always remembered her the way she looked in the kitchen on those holidays, surrounded by her family and the wafting smells of country cooking. Yes, her joy came in cooking and serving others, not in being served as she had to be toward the end of her days. It made her bitter and angry in some ways; her independence had always been her pride.
I also have a few other items that have value only to me, like some pictures from her walls, assorted what-nots and two gaudy ceramic owl lamps she had in her living room. I just couldn’t bring myself to discard them, especially since I can look at them and remember seeing them hanging on the walls of her home so many years ago, suspended in time and memory like perfect lenses to the past.
But the greatest thing she left me is the legacy of finding joy through serving others. I haven’t always done as well as she did, but I did have an excellent role model. I recall her ‘loaning’ money to people from whom she had no chance of collecting. She loaned to me a few times, but later on she had to borrow from me to make ends meet. In the end, she didn’t even have enough to pay for her own funeral and most of her squabbling children wouldn’t do it, so in her memory, I footed the bill myself rather than see my parents suffer through the payments. I think, in the end, it was less than $1,000 after her insurance. What a small price to pay and what an honor to be able to pay it.
Maybe I’m going to end up being a sentimental old fool surrounded by treasures no one else understands. But maybe, just maybe, I can impress some of the fine traditions of my family on the next generation. Not all traditions are bad.
Along those lines, my grandfather’s Bible, which I rescued from an ignominious end in a pile of rubbish, is every bit as valuable as any of the rest of the possessions I have.
In it, I have scripture references written by his hand that can’t be had again for love nor money. Those same scriptures that lighted his path can still illuminate my own today. But such a great treasure to me was left with the rest of the rubbish in the floor of an old, burned-out, abandoned house.
From my other grandmother’s estate, I have some buckeyes that she used to play a game with me and the letters my father wrote home when he was in the Army.
Maybe all true treasures are like that, their real value left unnoticed, hidden from the eye just out of sight. Yes, there is something to be said for a rich heritage, even if that heritage isn’t counted in dollars and cents. We can thank only God for that.
I hope you can get as much from reading Coby's piece, reproduced here in its entirety, as I as did.
Unpacking a few pieces of the past
by Coby LaRue
After all this time, I finally had occasion to go back through some of my grandmother’s things.
If you were reading this column when she died a few years ago, you might recall there was quite a fuss over her things. Although she didn’t have much, everyone wanted to make sure they got their fair share and just a little bit more. I must point out that not everyone in the family felt that way. Some were just not interested in having these things. They probably weren’t as sentimental as me.
I know I got more than my share. None of the other grandchildren got anything unless it came through their parents. I didn’t do it by any nefarious means, though. I used one of the very things that caused all the uproar to ensure the family heritage wasn’t strewn to the four winds: Money.
I simply paid those who inherited things for the items they received, so that I could ‘keep them in the family.’
My only uncle on my mother’s side sold everything he received to me and my sister, who subsequently divided the items. She and I are like-minded on these matters. One aunt divided her inheritance with her children, one of which took the items immediately to a local antique store. I can understand that—what good is heritage if you need bread? Another aunt had things to sell and another gave some things to me that she didn’t want. The end result was that I ended up with a good number of family heirlooms and all it cost me was money. I’ll trade my money for preserving the past any time.
At any rate, I went back through some of the items last week and pulled out my grandmother’s old china. It is green pattern, featuring a nice border of flowers and vines around a white china center, made in England. I was very pleased that this one item fell into my hands, although I doubt it is worth much in dollar value. So far, I have located the plates, coffee cups and saucers and dessert plates, but not the bowls and serving pieces. I’m pretty sure that I have them, I just don’t remember where they are right now. All of the things I got from her estate are stored in the barn and building at my parents’ house. I have numerous pieces of her owl collection, several glass collectible things, a few brass bells and decorations, letters and embroidery work and a few photographs.
But, like I said, one of my favorites is the china. I’m always pleased when I see it, mainly because I can remember eating from the plates and bowls as a child. Oh, there are chips here and there, but they probably held up so well because my grandmother never got them out unless it was a special day.
As I unpacked the pieces from their case, a simple cardboard container that once housed bananas, I noticed the date on the paper. “Sporting News, March, 1996.” I probably furnished the paper these are wrapped with, I thought. A mouse had taken up residence in one of the teacups and subsequently moved out.
As I took off the papers and laid the china out on the table, I remembered her and the way she used to cook. She didn’t just prepare the food, she prepared it with love. Well, love and fat meat, usually. Every time I eat pinto beans I find myself wishing I had some of her chow-chow (pepper relish). We make it at home and it is mighty fine, but it is very hard to compare with the taste of memory.
I remember her buzzing around the kitchen, grace in motion, nimble hands using worn old butcher knives and deftly moving food from pot to dish without spilling a drop. She was always going everywhere in a hurry. I can still remember one Christmas meal; I can almost smell the food. She, in a blue checked apron, had a plate of hand-rolled biscuits on the table (a little hint of powdery flour still on top, a decoration), a big bowl of macaroni and tomatoes with big peeled tomatoes and a big dollup of real butter in the center, fresh pork chops and mashed potatoes with pork gravy (for the health-conscious). There was always coffee in the percolator on the stove, and it was strong and hot. Of course, by the time she got finished adding sugar and milk, there wasn’t much coffee in her cup. I guess that’s why she made it so strong. It was sort of like mountain espresso.
You could also enjoy the ‘sides,’ like the earlier-mentioned chow-chow and homemade sauerkraut, usually made in the house in a crock covered by a pillow case. She also had a flair with pickled beans, beets and canned fruits.
Among my other memories are that she never ate until everyone else was finished and that she always made too much food, just in case someone else showed up. In a way, I think my sense of family died with her — the fragmented remains of my extended family seem more distant now. She was the tie that kept us together as one unit.
When you have five children and each of them has a spouse and children, Christmas dinner is more than just a little meal. It’s a circus.
Luckily, she usually didn’t have everyone over at one time, but people were everywhere.
Since her death, I’ve often wished I could have done something more for her, although I did do a little. She was always serving others with her time, energy and even finances. That’s why she never had much of her own.
After she had a stroke and was bound to a wheelchair, she was really unhappy for the remainder of her life. But I always remembered her the way she looked in the kitchen on those holidays, surrounded by her family and the wafting smells of country cooking. Yes, her joy came in cooking and serving others, not in being served as she had to be toward the end of her days. It made her bitter and angry in some ways; her independence had always been her pride.
I also have a few other items that have value only to me, like some pictures from her walls, assorted what-nots and two gaudy ceramic owl lamps she had in her living room. I just couldn’t bring myself to discard them, especially since I can look at them and remember seeing them hanging on the walls of her home so many years ago, suspended in time and memory like perfect lenses to the past.
But the greatest thing she left me is the legacy of finding joy through serving others. I haven’t always done as well as she did, but I did have an excellent role model. I recall her ‘loaning’ money to people from whom she had no chance of collecting. She loaned to me a few times, but later on she had to borrow from me to make ends meet. In the end, she didn’t even have enough to pay for her own funeral and most of her squabbling children wouldn’t do it, so in her memory, I footed the bill myself rather than see my parents suffer through the payments. I think, in the end, it was less than $1,000 after her insurance. What a small price to pay and what an honor to be able to pay it.
Maybe I’m going to end up being a sentimental old fool surrounded by treasures no one else understands. But maybe, just maybe, I can impress some of the fine traditions of my family on the next generation. Not all traditions are bad.
Along those lines, my grandfather’s Bible, which I rescued from an ignominious end in a pile of rubbish, is every bit as valuable as any of the rest of the possessions I have.
In it, I have scripture references written by his hand that can’t be had again for love nor money. Those same scriptures that lighted his path can still illuminate my own today. But such a great treasure to me was left with the rest of the rubbish in the floor of an old, burned-out, abandoned house.
From my other grandmother’s estate, I have some buckeyes that she used to play a game with me and the letters my father wrote home when he was in the Army.
Maybe all true treasures are like that, their real value left unnoticed, hidden from the eye just out of sight. Yes, there is something to be said for a rich heritage, even if that heritage isn’t counted in dollars and cents. We can thank only God for that.
Comments
Post a Comment