One of the many talents my grandma was known for was her pie baking. She baked two to three pies per week and my grandpa ate a slice with nearly every meal. A piece was often offered to guests, card players or feed truck drivers. On occasion, one may have been left for the garbage man.
An industrial size bucket of Schwan’s vanilla ice cream was kept in the freezer under the carport for appropriate garnish.
A few years ago, my teaching partner and good friend requested a blackberry pie – her favorite kind. Of course, my grandma obliged because when nice people need food, it should be provided.
I marched into the staff room, pie in hand, prepared to enjoy my 30-minute, duty-free lunch and a slice of the pie I delivered. My co-workers looked at me in awe, like they had been raised in a sugar-free-vegan home and had never seen a pie up close and in person. One asked with his eyes wide, “What is that for?” As my friend whisked the pie out of my hands in search a knife to slice it, I replied, “It’s for Amy. My grandma made it.”
He looked stunned and asked why she would do that. I explained that Amy had asked for it and since my grandma baked a couple of pies a week anyway she made an extra. My co-worker looked at me like I was delivering the news in broken pig-Latin, totally confused. “Why does your grandma bake that many pies each week?” My response, “For my grandpa to eat.”
Several other staff members became suspicious, asking about my grandma’s recent broken hip. Apparently they didn’t believe that a 70-something lady with a cane could whip out three pies per week, just because. I have no idea why they suspected I was exaggerating. Gasp! OK, maybe I’ve exaggerated once or twice about a couple of things. But not this!
I proceeded to explain that my cane-wielding grandma also knew how to drive a tractor, milk cows, run a sewing machine, rifle-hunt deer like a boss and used to build airplanes for Boeing. With smirks on their faces, my co-workers reverted to eating their heated up leftovers and boloney sandwiches as they mentally rolled their eyes at what they thought was hyperbole. My friend, Amy, was laughing herself silly between bites of blackberry pie because she knew every bit of my claim was true! Having come from a Washington farm family herself, she was well aware of farm kitchen cooking and the work ethic of a farmer’s wife. Although, she did not stop to defend me. Some friend.
I finished my slice of pie and headed back to my classroom to fire off an email to my grandma before my students returned from lunch. Yes, my grandma used email, too. I let her know that Amy appreciated the pie and that my crazy co-workers suspected I had concocted my (accurate) description of her skills. It had never occurred to me that other people’s grandmas didn’t do that stuff, too. I thanked her for being a super-woman-dairy-wife-role-model and hit “send” as my middle-schoolers infiltrated my classroom once again.
My grandparents really got a kick out of that email.
They printed it out (because that’s what old people do, they print emails to share them) and kept a copy in the car and one by the recliner. They shared it with guests, card players and feed truck drivers, not to boast about themselves but because they were completely amused by their granddaughter’s co-workers.
Apparently, these diverse skill sets are just another byproduct of growing up on the Plateau. I imagine I could hold a meeting of the Daughters of the Sale Barn (this is actually a fictitious organization, but if it existed I would definitely be a member) and not a single person would be shocked at the description of my grandma. And I’m sure the others would have similar accounts.
