My Gene Pool

Apparently my love for the orange-handled crow bar is genetic. My dear Aunt E, upon reading my last post about how I tore down the paneled walls in my kitchen, informed me that my grandmother did a little demolition in her day, too. Grandma cut the “horns” off the wooden chairs and the “claw” feet off the side table to modernize things a little. More importantly, Aunt E told me that Grandma got so sick of looking at the wainscoting in her kitchen that one day she ripped it off. After all, if she didn’t do it – no one would. Truth be told, if I were living in Grandma’s farm house today, I would probably put the wainscoting back on. But nonetheless, it is delightfully awesome to find out why I love the crow bar so much.

Excerpts from the writing I did when Grandma passed away back in September of 2001 –

Grandma is still very much alive in my senses.

Thinking back to when I mowed her lawn, I can smell the flowers growing in Grandma’s yard - lilacs, snowballs and peonies. In spite of being deathly afraid of bees, I would cross my fingers and duck around each bush with the mower, being very careful not to nick one.

My mouth puckers when I remember Grandma’s home made dill pickles. In the cookie jar, I can taste Grandma’s cookies with butter frosting and her cake doughnuts rolled in sugar.

In Grandma’s bedroom on the farm, I can see Grandma’s big bed with the soft white blanket with roses on it. I can see her tiny shoes, neatly paired up under the chair in our living room. I can see Grandma’s garnet ring on her finger and her purple sweater lying over the chair. One last thing I can see and never will forget is the love in Grandma’s eyes, as she looked at my little girl.

I can feel the love in Grandma’s hands as she wiped the grease and grime from mine, standing behind me at the sink with her arms around me and holding my hands under the water with hers, rubbing with soap and then rinsing both of our hands together. Snuggling in bed with her, I can feel her soft, silvery gray hair.

I can hear her telling me about her life as a young girl. With sadness in her voice, I can hear Grandma tell me about her sister Christina, whom she lost when she was young. I can hear Grandma talking with great pride about Grandpa, and what a wonderful man he was. I can hear the pride in her voice as she spoke of her Norwegian heritage. I can hear Grandma talking with pride about Dad, Aunt E and Aunt J, and in later years, about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And most recently, I can hear Grandma calling “take me home”.

Our family touches us and gives us a sense of belonging and a place in this world. Grandma and Grandpa began their own circle of life many years ago, and I am here today because I am a part of it.

This is what makes me who I am, orange-handled crow bar and all.