Lessons from Gammee

~On the coast...Gammee and Bapa...and me, peeking up from below!~


A few months back, I spoke about my "Gammee". I told her story from my perspective...yet, there is so much more to her life. So much more, I'm not even aware of...
that which remains a bit of a mystery to me. I'm not sure I will ever get all the answers, but I can learn from what I know.

I was blessed to have a grandmother that was all a grandmother should be. She doted on me, sewed and did incredible needlework, and made our favorite meals and baked goods for us when we came to visit. She worked hours at her sewing machine, to make me a hundred little doll clothes, even when her fingers were old and worn.

I was an only child, and my two half sisters were grown, so when I came along, I was able to glean all of her grandmotherly love and soak it up for myself.

It was she who first patiently tried to teach me to knit, but it just never took. Or so I thought. When someone came to our homeschool group this fall and taught the children knitting, my fingers started remembering something I had no idea I still retained. It was the oddest sensation.
And in a strange, wonderful way, it was as if a part of her was still alive again through my remembering.

But there were other dimensions to her life... before I came into the picture...


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her name was Myrtle and she was born in the year 1900 (yes, 1900!) as one of about 11 children or so, in rustic Oklahoma.
(How I wish I had pictures of her as a child, but to this day, I haven't seen even one.)
She and her sisters and brothers spent many a day hunched over a cotton field, and when she did have time to play, her favorite doll was made of a corn husk. She told me facinating stories of looking out over her horizon and seeing as many as three tornados off in the distance. But so much about Myrtle's childhood shrouded for me...I wish I knew more.
But I do know that the work ethic she developed as a child stayed with her. She continued to be a hard worker all of her life. She took the art of cleaning and scrubbing 'til it hurt and made it her own.

It had always seemed strange to me, that my Gammee- this strong Christian woman- had once been married at age 15. She never liked to talk about this part of her life, but my dad had told me most of what he knew...

She married a young man (in his 20's, I think) who seemed to want nothing more than to dominate and control her.
He even drew a line in the land, telling her she was not allowed to cross over.
Knowing my grandmother as well as I did, I suspect that it was even worse than this. Divorce was not taken lightly in those days, and especially by those who were Christians. It's no wonder she never spoke of this dark time in her life.

Later, in her 20's, she married again. This was my real grandfather, and together they had only one child- my father. ~My dad, age 1, 1926~

They raised him during the Great Depression in Texas, when the dust storms blew over and times were so tough that at one point that they lived for awhile in a deserted train car.
She scrubbed floors on her hands and knees to help earn some money, never being too tired to keep what ever small place they made their home also as clean as whistle.
If they lived with dirt floors- those dirt floors were clean!

When my father was a very young man, she endured not only another heartbreak, but a brutal blow to her self-esteem when my grandfather left her for another woman. She was devistated. Thinking perhaps it was due to being overweight, she slimmed down completely...but from that point on, there seemed to be a permanent mark on her heart and confidence.

~My dad with his parents, 1942~

However, when she was in her fifties, happiness found her again, and she married once more.
My father, who originally wanted nothing to do with his dad for what he had done, began to forgive him...just in time- before my grandfather's death.
Shortly before he died, I posed with him on a rare visit.

~My grandfather and myself in 1965~

But it was Gammee's new husband that was my grandpa...Bapa. He was a little frail and walked with a cain from a stroke, but always nice to me and ready for a game of Rummy in their little trailer house. And I never once felt that their trailer house was cramped...it was always just cozy, warm and full of love.




But in spite of all of these wonderful memories, she was far from perfect. She carried with her the wounds of her past and deep insecurities. She could be critical of those (especially my mom) who didn't share her need for spotless cleaning.
But in spite of all of her flaws, she was a woman after God's own heart, who though scarred by a few pieces of time, marched on with a faith in Him that He would somehow see her through.


And He always did.

Hardly a day goes by that I don't think of her. And some day, when I get to Heaven, I think she will be one of the first to greet me after my dear Savior....
just like when I was little and arrived at her trailer house after the long drive...her arms outstretched and hurrying over, she'll exclaim, calling me by her nickname for me,

"My little Tamella..."

Until that day, the memories of her are warm and safe in my heart.
And I'll try not only to remember only how she was my special Gammee, but that there was another part of who she was. So many dimensions to her life and experiences helped to mold her into the person she became, as she strove make the best in hard times...and to trust God's unfailing love.