My grandma and grandpa both passed away this year. When I said goodbye to my grandpa, I shared some of my favorite memories of our time together with him. During the funeral, I heard my mom, my aunts, and some of my cousins also share some memories, and those memories have gotten me thinking about my childhood weeks spent on the farm.
Every summer growing up, my parents, siblings and I would load into the car and drive 10 or 12 hours to my grandparents’ farm. We spent the drive reading, squabbling, looking at the sky and the cows and the fields of wheat and corn, finding the letters of the alphabet in order in an alphabet game competition, or playing a scavenger hunt that my dad dreamed up. The squabbling lessened as we got within 10 miles of the farm, and we counted down the miles in eager anticipation until finally we pulled into the long driveway that ended outside the farmhouse that my great uncle Albert built before I was born.
By now it was completely dark, and we unfolded ourselves from the van to the gravel driveway and the sidewalk leading up to the house. Meg, the black mutt, bounded toward us, licking us and begging for pets. We loved Meg, and she loved us just as much. Saul, the shy Great Pyrenees would be hiding somewhere, but we might catch a glimpse of him when he came out to see what the ruckus was all about.
After greeting Meg and any of her puppies that might be nearby, we climbed the old wooden steps with pots of my grandma’s flowers on each step and opened the door. The old door squeaked, and we were first greeted with the smell of the mud room. Grandpa stored the pet food here, so it mostly smelled like animal food and dirt that had settled into the corners of the small room.
We didn’t stop there but opened the next door into the kitchen. Grandma would stop washing the dishes to give us all hugs. And there is nothing like hugging Grandma after a long day in the car. Grandpa would give us hugs too and then after some excited conversation, we’d head back out to the car to bring in all our stuff.
The next morning, I would wake up early, Grandma and Grandpa would be in the kitchen, but my family was still asleep.
“Did you feed the cats yet?” I asked Grandpa eagerly.
“I was just about to go out and do that, but I was waiting a minute for you,” Grandpa knew I loved feeding the cats more than anything else.
We headed into the mud room, and Grandpa showed me how much food to get for the current batch of kitties and dogs. We soaked it in milk and then headed out to the waiting animals. The dogs food dishes were near the house, so we fed them first, and then we headed out to feed the cats.
I loved cats more than almost anything when I was a kid, and the farm always had cats. Usually, there were a few bigger cats who were friendly, but sometimes there were kittens too. My favorite thing in the world was to play with the kittens, but usually their moms would hide them, and I would spend the entire week searching every nook and cranny of the sheds and nearby storage areas for those kittens.
But for now, we were just feeding them. I loved feeding the cats because whether or not they were friendly, I could usually pet them while they were eating. If they were shy, I would coax them closer over the week, tempting them with food or pieces of string with washers on the end for a small toy.
But there wasn’t much time to play with cats now because there was also work to do.
“Do you want to go out to the field with me?” Grandpa asked. “I’ve got some work in the tractor to do.”
“Yes!” Riding in the tractor with Grandpa was another of my favorite things.
We hopped in the pick-up truck and headed out to where the tractor was waiting for us in the field. The cab of the tractor was small, and sometimes I would sit on a small space, but usually, I would sit on Grandpa’s lap. After he got us going, he let me steer while he controlled the acceleration and brake pedals. I was too small to reach them.
“Make sure to keep that point down there right on that line of uncut stuff,” Grandpa said, showing me how to steer.
He let me take over, and I settled in to watch that line carefully. The tractor was too noisy for much talking, but I loved helping, and I loved being there with Grandpa.
“Umm, Grandpa, you can take over now that we’re getting close to a turn.” I said, still keeping my eyes on that line.
When Grandpa didn’t respond, I started to get nervous. I didn’t know how to turn. Grandpa always did that part. After calling again, I turned around to see Grandpa’s eyes closed.
“Grandpa, wake up!” I called, nudging him. He snapped out of his doze just in time to get us turned around, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
By the time we headed back to the house for breakfast, I was ready for some food, and everyone else was up too. Grandma was making pancakes, and Grandpa whipped up his sausage gravy. I like pancakes, but usually, I only eat a couple. Unless there’s sausage gravy. I love sausage gravy and pancakes for breakfast more than I love any other breakfast food. Nothing even comes close. With Grandma’s pancakes shaped like a cat for me or other animals for my siblings, and Grandpa’s sausage gravy, I could eat and eat and eat.
We sat around the table that was covered in every form of paraphernalia imaginable: pens, notes, knick-knacks, sauces. Seeing that table free of things was very rare. Part of breakfast always included clearing away enough space so that everyone could sit and have a little bit of space to eat. All the stuff got pushed to one side or the middle of that giant table.
We sat back from our chairs and Grandpa pulled out his Bible and the Daily Bread. He read the verses and the little devotional, and then it was time to pray. By now, my cousins had probably arrived also, and we had a rather large group at the table. And according to my grandparents’ rule, everyone should pray.
We started at one side of the table and usually ended with my grandparents. My siblings and I would pray short prayers, my parents’ prayers were a little bit longer, but nobody prayed as long as Grandma and Grandpa. They prayed for everyone in our family, and then the more distant relatives that I didn’t really know, and then they prayed for suffering people in their church. I squirmed, wondering if they would ever finish so we could go outside and play.
Growing up, these morning prayers around the breakfast table were not my favorite part of our week on the farm. But over the years, I found comfort in knowing that my grandparents prayed for me every day. When I was at college or in China, they wrote me birthday cards telling me that they were proud of me, and they were praying for me. And I knew they were.
Now that these grandparents are no longer on earth, I miss their faithful prayers. But I’ve also realized that the people around me still need prayer. As I’ve grown in my relationship with God and seen prayer not just as something that I should do but as communion with a God who loves me, I’ve started spending more and more time in prayer for the people that I love. I’m thankful for my grandparents who gave me this example of people who were committed to prayer for everyone in their lives.
After prayer time, we were free to play. I spent hours on my own searching for cats and waiting quietly near the run-down chicken coop because Grandpa said there were some cats living in there.
My siblings and I would climb all over the farm equipment that my grandpa left around the driveway. That driveway really could have been a museum. There were combines from the early 1900s that had stopped working and never been moved. One of them was blue, and one was red, and we loved to climb all over them, of course being careful around any sharp bits.
Old cars lined the driveway as well including the one that my mom drove in high school. My dad later adopted that one in the hopes of one day fixing it up. The cars had just been left in their spot with the grass growing up around them. Some of the cars became storage areas for books or other things.
Inside the Quonset, the large half-cylinder shed used for storing bigger machinery, we had endless opportunities for exploration. We climbed up the giant wheels of the tractors. Most of them were big enough that I could sit or sometimes stand inside the wheel. We climbed up to the storage bins and saw where Grandpa stored millet. Grandpa had a workshop area on one side, and we could usually find him there, but we wouldn’t bother him while he was working, and we weren’t supposed to play in the workshop area.
My cousin, Andrew, and I would wander around the cow pastures when the cows were gone. We explored the line of trees that formed a snow-break on one side of the driveway. I loved finding pathways and seeing where the pathways ended up. Or we could go behind the house to the overgrown orchard out back.
The afternoons were hot. Sometimes we would play hide and seek—the farm was the perfect place for that, but sometimes we’d get bored. As we ventured further away from the house, we had more adventures. We climbed around on the hay stacks, and one year we found another field full of old vehicles.
One of them was an old mini van with blue and yellow stripes all along the sides. We opened it up and found a party booth in the back with a small round table and a mini-fridge. We had fun pretending we could fix up that van for our family instead of the astro-van that we usually used.
One summer, my old brother and I went to the farm without the rest of our family so we could help out our grandparents. I helped Grandma in the kitchen, cleaning all the figurines that she had on ledges above the doors and on the window sills. I helped her peel potatoes and cook and go down into the dark basement to get canned vegetables or jams. I helped her water her massive vegetable garden and the lily garden. My favorite job was taking out the mail. Grandma always had letters to mail because she wrote birthday cards and anniversary cards every day to people in their church. So every day, I would take the cards out to the mail box at the end of the half-mile driveway. I loved being outside, and sometimes I could see some cats while I was out.
One day, my grandpa took me outside and we got into the pick-up truck again. But this time, Grandpa got into the passenger side of the truck. I was thirteen, so I hadn’t even started driving yet, but Grandpa seemed confident. I was less confident. I couldn’t grasp the concept of the stick shift and the clutch, but Grandpa persevered, and we drove up and down that driveway countless times. Until I said goodbye to my grandpa, I never talked about that experience with him, and I do wonder how he felt about it. He never took me out driving again which tells me something, but I’m glad we did it. It wasn’t smooth, but looking back on it, it sure was funny, and I can’t believe Grandpa didn’t give up on me earlier because I was really struggling, and I nearly crashed at least once. But we stuck with it, and I eventually had a little bit of success.
Every year my grandparents arranged a vacation for the whole family with aunts, uncles, and cousins in the mountains. Those were some of my favorite memories as we went on hikes, played tennis, had intense games of keep-away in the pool, went fishing in the mountain stream, and ate lots of good food. But the more we went to the mountains, the less we went to the farm.
All my pictures of the farm are on the other side of the world at the moment, but I found a few pictures from the mountains and other family pictures.
The farm will always hold a special place in my heart. I loved having the chance to explore and learn and be with people I loved. I loved the cats and the adventures, but most of all, I loved having the chance to be with my grandparents and all the rest of my family. The farm is one of those places that looks completely different now but still lives in my memory just like it did on those carefree summer days.
