This is a piece I wrote quite a few years ago after the death of my lovely grandmother. I’ve never posted it here because it’s lengthy, but am doing so today in the spirit of Mother’s Day. Each year my gratitude grows for my mother, grandmother, and aunties that taught me I have value apart from what I do.
Red. It’s the color of my living room. It’s the color you would have found most in my grandmother’s wardrobe. She loved red. It’s the color of the raspberries I picked with her when I was a young girl. It’s the color of love. Of vibrancy. Of richness. Of sacrifice. As of late, I’ve been painting in lighter hues. I want to go back to red.
I was ten. The place I wanted to be more than anywhere was at my grandparent’s cabin on Edelweiss Mountain. It was an A-Frame budding with character, nestled in the woods. The loft showcased the slate rocks we painted. It had a table where we played Rummy Royal. It overlooked the wood stove surrounded by slate on the lower level. The dining room around the corner was the most memory-rich room. There, my grandfather ate half of a grapefruit and shredded wheat in the morning. There, I managed a restaurant. I prepared and served food off the menu I created, and charged my grandparents a very reasonable price for the food they stocked. There, my family gathered around the large table to laugh. There, I stared out the sliding glass doors and planned my nature tour. There, the 70’s style china hutch sat, which now graces my living room.
But the best part about the cabin wasn’t the cabin. My grandmother and I ventured out every day (sometimes twice a day) to pick wild raspberries. They were sweet, juicy, and great over ice cream. The best place for picking raspberries was down the hill past the first cattle guard. We’d fill our bags, and then start picking wildflowers. The most sought-after varieties were crocuses and bluebells. Also, a great daisy patch blanketed the bottom of the steep hill right by the cabin. If we saw other flowers we liked, we’d pick ‘em and try to identify them in our nature books back at the cabin.
Truth be told, the best part about the raspberries and wildflowers wasn’t the raspberries and wildflowers. It was my co-adventuress. She was the one that took me to the vines. She was the one that intuitively knew the richness we’d find together seeking beauty and fruit. She was a woman who chose well. She chose her family. She chose to listen instead of insisting her opinion be heard. And she chose to invest her time, thought, and creativity into me. I’m nearly forty, and it’s finally dawned on me that she could have spent her time in other ways. She had her own desires. Her own giftedness. Yet, she spent countless hours teaching me to play the organ and coaching me to sing. The baking we did together made flour fly. My grandmother, once a great classroom teacher, was a very attentive Spanish student of mine (although I did encourage her to study more). I styled her hair. We played piano and organ duets. We painted paper doilies. How was she content not being busy with so many other worthy endeavors? It is beyond what I can comprehend that maybe I was part of what she desired. That I was part of her joy.
I want to go back to ten. I want to go back to the cabin. The wildflowers allure me. I want to taste the sweet wild raspberries again. And mostly, I want to be with my grandmother. She’d take me to the vines. This draw I feel makes me wonder: What is it about the place of the vines I loved so much? Maybe, there, I was not seeking to arrange for life. I was simply taking it as it was offered to me. At some point later on, I perceived the need to begin arranging.
Perhaps it was when I turned fourteen. Raspberries and wildflowers didn’t seem sharp enough tools to cut through feelings of rejection and inadequacy. I decided I must search for other tools. I found a few that seemed custom-fit for me and stout enough to combat these enemies: Grasp to perform. Perform to feel significant. Arrange for results. Control to avoid pain. I unknowingly wanted to reclaim the goodness I had there, but found no other option than to begin creating it for myself. What was simply offered me wasn’t enough. At ten, I was nestled in the place of the vines, unaware I was in need of anything else. At fourteen, I mistakenly learned that the place of the vines was only for vacations. I had to learn to live outside that place – in a world that expects a lot and gives little. Where most people live. Where I was destined to live. I had to pack my mementos of the cabin in a bag, and they became buried beneath the tools I began picking up along the way necessary to live outside the vines. The bag was getting heavy.
At thirty-five, I went to see my grandmother in the nursing home. She was no longer able to take me to the vines to pick flowers. Her body was weak, and her mind was failing. She had Alzheimer’s. For five years, I watched her digress. I was slowly losing her. And the place of the vines began to haunt me. Can’t we go back? My bag is so heavy, and so were her eyes. Can’t we go back just for a day? The vines were calling us. There was beauty to discover, a connection to make again. Age and Alzheimer’s tried to keep her from going back. My heavy bag was trying to keep me from going back. But they failed.
My grandmother went to the great place of the vines on November 16, 2005. There, she was welcomed and cherished by the Gardener. There, perhaps, they are scouting the best raspberry picking for when I can join them. There, she paints in red. There, she sees in red. She sees things in their greatest vibrancy. She enjoys things in their deepest richness. There, she not only beholds beauty, but is a part of it. There, the Gardener is rewarding her for choosing well. And what is the reward? I don’t know. Something she desires deeply.
This January was a hard month. I felt crushed from the strain of grasping. I was exhausted from arranging. I cried from the loss of my co-adventuress. In the midst of my cloud of confusion and sorrow, I remembered the place of the vines. That’s where I want to live. That’s where the Gardener is calling me to live. To abide in Him. He is the Vine. I am the branch.
“I am the vine, you are the branches; he who abides in Me, and I in him, he
bears much fruit; for apart from me, you can do nothing.” (John 15:5 NAS)
It’s the Vine that has always sought me in the place of the vines. My grandmother simply had the wisdom to take me there. It’s the Vine that has always romanced me there. It’s the Vine that always wanted me to stay there, even after the cabin sold. And it’s the goodness of the Gardener that has been haunting me. So, in February, I went back. Not in a way where I can experience it in all of its fullness like Grandma did, but back to the place where I’m taking life as it’s offered to me. The Gardener and I have never left one another. I’ve simply forgotten the fragrance found by just staying in the vines. When I live there, the need to grasp and arrange ceases. I no longer need to create goodness. It’s already there.
My daughter just turned ten. The ripeness of her age beckons my examination. My grandmother chose well. How am I choosing? I’m considering all that she invested in me. Am I squandering it? Or am I investing it in my two daughters? How can I take them to the vines? How can they experience the richness, the goodness? I’m certain if they experience the vines, then decide they must venture out for awhile, they’ll be allured back again. Just like I was.
Today, my husband, my six-year-old daughter, and I went to visit the cabin. No one was there so we could not enter, but we peered through the dining room window. I was surprised to see the same “716” train picture on the wall. And there were the same yellow countertops. What struck me the most, however, was the youngling pine tree down the road from the cabin standing in front of a sea of larger trees with a single red ribbon tied around it. Out of nowhere. Like a gift.
I cannot go back to those days on Edelweiss Mountain, just like I cannot re-wrap and unwrap a gift that was already given and have it mean the same. But I can relish the gift I received: exquisitely tied in red ribbon, so underserved, and so perfect for me that I didn’t even know to ask for it. I can enjoy and nurture the gift that I have often placed on a shelf. And I can pass it on to my daughters.
Now, I think I’ll go paint my toenails red. And ponder the day I’ll get to tell my grandma that the life she poured in me inspired me to go back and live in the place of the vines.
Dedicated to Helen E. Westaby, my co-adventuress
Red. It’s the color of my living room. It’s the color you would have found most in my grandmother’s wardrobe. She loved red. It’s the color of the raspberries I picked with her when I was a young girl. It’s the color of love. Of vibrancy. Of richness. Of sacrifice. As of late, I’ve been painting in lighter hues. I want to go back to red.
I was ten. The place I wanted to be more than anywhere was at my grandparent’s cabin on Edelweiss Mountain. It was an A-Frame budding with character, nestled in the woods. The loft showcased the slate rocks we painted. It had a table where we played Rummy Royal. It overlooked the wood stove surrounded by slate on the lower level. The dining room around the corner was the most memory-rich room. There, my grandfather ate half of a grapefruit and shredded wheat in the morning. There, I managed a restaurant. I prepared and served food off the menu I created, and charged my grandparents a very reasonable price for the food they stocked. There, my family gathered around the large table to laugh. There, I stared out the sliding glass doors and planned my nature tour. There, the 70’s style china hutch sat, which now graces my living room.
But the best part about the cabin wasn’t the cabin. My grandmother and I ventured out every day (sometimes twice a day) to pick wild raspberries. They were sweet, juicy, and great over ice cream. The best place for picking raspberries was down the hill past the first cattle guard. We’d fill our bags, and then start picking wildflowers. The most sought-after varieties were crocuses and bluebells. Also, a great daisy patch blanketed the bottom of the steep hill right by the cabin. If we saw other flowers we liked, we’d pick ‘em and try to identify them in our nature books back at the cabin.
Truth be told, the best part about the raspberries and wildflowers wasn’t the raspberries and wildflowers. It was my co-adventuress. She was the one that took me to the vines. She was the one that intuitively knew the richness we’d find together seeking beauty and fruit. She was a woman who chose well. She chose her family. She chose to listen instead of insisting her opinion be heard. And she chose to invest her time, thought, and creativity into me. I’m nearly forty, and it’s finally dawned on me that she could have spent her time in other ways. She had her own desires. Her own giftedness. Yet, she spent countless hours teaching me to play the organ and coaching me to sing. The baking we did together made flour fly. My grandmother, once a great classroom teacher, was a very attentive Spanish student of mine (although I did encourage her to study more). I styled her hair. We played piano and organ duets. We painted paper doilies. How was she content not being busy with so many other worthy endeavors? It is beyond what I can comprehend that maybe I was part of what she desired. That I was part of her joy.
I want to go back to ten. I want to go back to the cabin. The wildflowers allure me. I want to taste the sweet wild raspberries again. And mostly, I want to be with my grandmother. She’d take me to the vines. This draw I feel makes me wonder: What is it about the place of the vines I loved so much? Maybe, there, I was not seeking to arrange for life. I was simply taking it as it was offered to me. At some point later on, I perceived the need to begin arranging.
Perhaps it was when I turned fourteen. Raspberries and wildflowers didn’t seem sharp enough tools to cut through feelings of rejection and inadequacy. I decided I must search for other tools. I found a few that seemed custom-fit for me and stout enough to combat these enemies: Grasp to perform. Perform to feel significant. Arrange for results. Control to avoid pain. I unknowingly wanted to reclaim the goodness I had there, but found no other option than to begin creating it for myself. What was simply offered me wasn’t enough. At ten, I was nestled in the place of the vines, unaware I was in need of anything else. At fourteen, I mistakenly learned that the place of the vines was only for vacations. I had to learn to live outside that place – in a world that expects a lot and gives little. Where most people live. Where I was destined to live. I had to pack my mementos of the cabin in a bag, and they became buried beneath the tools I began picking up along the way necessary to live outside the vines. The bag was getting heavy.
At thirty-five, I went to see my grandmother in the nursing home. She was no longer able to take me to the vines to pick flowers. Her body was weak, and her mind was failing. She had Alzheimer’s. For five years, I watched her digress. I was slowly losing her. And the place of the vines began to haunt me. Can’t we go back? My bag is so heavy, and so were her eyes. Can’t we go back just for a day? The vines were calling us. There was beauty to discover, a connection to make again. Age and Alzheimer’s tried to keep her from going back. My heavy bag was trying to keep me from going back. But they failed.
My grandmother went to the great place of the vines on November 16, 2005. There, she was welcomed and cherished by the Gardener. There, perhaps, they are scouting the best raspberry picking for when I can join them. There, she paints in red. There, she sees in red. She sees things in their greatest vibrancy. She enjoys things in their deepest richness. There, she not only beholds beauty, but is a part of it. There, the Gardener is rewarding her for choosing well. And what is the reward? I don’t know. Something she desires deeply.
This January was a hard month. I felt crushed from the strain of grasping. I was exhausted from arranging. I cried from the loss of my co-adventuress. In the midst of my cloud of confusion and sorrow, I remembered the place of the vines. That’s where I want to live. That’s where the Gardener is calling me to live. To abide in Him. He is the Vine. I am the branch.
“I am the vine, you are the branches; he who abides in Me, and I in him, he
bears much fruit; for apart from me, you can do nothing.” (John 15:5 NAS)
It’s the Vine that has always sought me in the place of the vines. My grandmother simply had the wisdom to take me there. It’s the Vine that has always romanced me there. It’s the Vine that always wanted me to stay there, even after the cabin sold. And it’s the goodness of the Gardener that has been haunting me. So, in February, I went back. Not in a way where I can experience it in all of its fullness like Grandma did, but back to the place where I’m taking life as it’s offered to me. The Gardener and I have never left one another. I’ve simply forgotten the fragrance found by just staying in the vines. When I live there, the need to grasp and arrange ceases. I no longer need to create goodness. It’s already there.
My daughter just turned ten. The ripeness of her age beckons my examination. My grandmother chose well. How am I choosing? I’m considering all that she invested in me. Am I squandering it? Or am I investing it in my two daughters? How can I take them to the vines? How can they experience the richness, the goodness? I’m certain if they experience the vines, then decide they must venture out for awhile, they’ll be allured back again. Just like I was.
Today, my husband, my six-year-old daughter, and I went to visit the cabin. No one was there so we could not enter, but we peered through the dining room window. I was surprised to see the same “716” train picture on the wall. And there were the same yellow countertops. What struck me the most, however, was the youngling pine tree down the road from the cabin standing in front of a sea of larger trees with a single red ribbon tied around it. Out of nowhere. Like a gift.
I cannot go back to those days on Edelweiss Mountain, just like I cannot re-wrap and unwrap a gift that was already given and have it mean the same. But I can relish the gift I received: exquisitely tied in red ribbon, so underserved, and so perfect for me that I didn’t even know to ask for it. I can enjoy and nurture the gift that I have often placed on a shelf. And I can pass it on to my daughters.
Now, I think I’ll go paint my toenails red. And ponder the day I’ll get to tell my grandma that the life she poured in me inspired me to go back and live in the place of the vines.
Dedicated to Helen E. Westaby, my co-adventuress
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