SUNDAY DINNER Marsha Spiers
It’s one of those warm, fuzzy memories. You know the kind. They bring a faint smile to your lips and, if you can keep the things that follow in later years at bay, a tug to your heart. We would all be loaded in the car. No small feat for there were seven of us kids. The trip to the ranch around the winding mountain road had been taken so often, that it seemed to go by quickly. The ranch sat nestled at the base of the hills surrounded by fields of hay, with the creek meandering through the middle. Horses and cattle dotted the landscape. A few miles away sat one of those sleepy small towns that had seen prosperity once, but a long time in the past. There had even been a small teaching college in its heyday, but now it was boarded and silent. The town served the needs of the ranchers that lived close with a grocery store and a gas station. My Grandparents would be waiting at the end of the long, tree lined drive, in their pink farmhouse. Busy, mind you, not just sitting around. They were some of the most industrious people I was to ever know. The same was expected of you when you came to visit. I don’t remember ever going there to just sit and visit, unless it was on the yearly pilgrimage to see their Christmas tree. It was truly a thing of wonder to a small child. They had those amazing candlestick lights that had bubbles that magically rose in their tiny tubes. It was always decorated perfectly, with all the tinsel hanging in exact order. You see, that was the kind of mother my father had…exacting. Grandma was a tiny woman, but strong and always busy. She raised seven children and buried three of them. Worked on the ranch like a man and grew a large garden to feed them all. My memory is of her always in a dress with an apron. She grew that garden right up to the day she died. Her flowers were her pride and joy. It was said that a weed knew it didn’t have a chance, so it didn’t even bother coming up. She ran a tight ship. You could eat of the floor in her kitchen. She went so far as to starch and iron her sheets and tea towels. She was so busy, in fact, that I never remember a hug or word of encouragement. It wasn’t that she didn’t speak much, in fact, she had a loud and carrying voice. We children knew that, no matter where we were or what mischief we were doing that voice would carry to us and find us out. 73
