See the Beauty in the Ordinary: Grandma Loved Flowers

Grandma with her big sunflower.

It wasn’t an easy life. But then, who has an easy life? Not many who lived through the depression. Not many who start a farm from scratch in the middle of said depression. Not many who live without modern day conveniences. The work for a farm wife was relentless. It was mundane. It was mostly done in solitude. It wasn’t pretty. That was my grandmother’s life.

Esther Miller Epp (1905-1995) liked pretty dishes (but never used them) and having things “just so”. For years her legs ached with varicose veins. Yes, she should put her feet up, but when? And what should stay undone? Not gathering eggs from two large chicken pens and preparing them for sale. Not caring for and preserving a large vegetable garden. Not dealing with the milk and cream separator. Not preparing meals and washing dishes afterwards. Grandma often seemed slightly overwhelmed by her heavy workload.

My grandparents began farm life with two young children in 1936 with a moved-in barn, a few horses and a cow in an empty field. They worked hard to make a farm.

As a child of ten or eleven I would sometimes spend a week with my grandparents and help Grandma. It wasn’t fun and games. But it wasn’t unpleasant either. By this time in her life surely her workload would have been reduced some but she was always working. I suspect that for both of us the least favorite chore was washing the cream separator in the rusty sink in the dank basement where there always seemed to be a faintly sour scent (Still, it was less work than Grandpa’s who cared for the cattle and milked twice a day by hand.) Although I never helped her, I remember seeing squares of homemade soap laid out neatly on old newspapers in the attic. Lye soap no doubt.

The culmination of all the hard labor took place during the early part of August when it was time to bale hay and all the work, urgency and stress were multiplied. So much of the farm depended on a good hay crop. As the menfolk toiled in the blistering heat slinging heavy bales onto the wagon and then into stacks in the barn, the females prepared food in Grandma’s warm kitchen. Grandma cooked with a slop bucket in the middle of the kitchen. Every scrap -- potato peelings, egg shells, moldy bread and sour milk, etc. went into the bucket which was doused by the dishwater (and eventually fed to the pigs by Grandpa). Meanwhile as she cooked she somehow managed to use an enormous amount of dishes creating a bewildering mound of dishes which all had to be washed, dried and put away by hand. Still we managed to put together a “lunch”(served around 4 p.m.) menu of bologna salad sandwiches, cookies and very sweet tea.

“She had to work so hard,” said my aunt wistfully, remembering her harried mother.

Grandma's beloved grandchildren with her geraniums.

But she had flowers. Almost a luxury in their beauty. Impractical, because who eats flowers? On the path to the chicken pens, near the gate was a cloud of four o’clocks with a sweet scent that greeted all who entered on summer afternoons. Near the house, old troughs were filled with flowers. Geraniums mostly, I think. Grandchildren were lined up around them for photos. Photographs were another of her passions as were her grandchildren.

Grandma's zinnias

Finally the day came when my grandparents retired and moved to a sweet little brick home in town. Our family moved to the farm. It was not an easy adjustment for Grandpa who would continue daily visits to his beloved farm, fixing fences and checking on his cows for several years. Grandma, however, seemed to enjoy town life. No, it still wasn’t an easy life. Did the new house come with a dishwasher? “We’ll never use it,” she said. And she didn’t.

But here she really had flowers. Potted plants, sunflowers, and a plot of zinnias arrayed her yard. As a young mother I visited them one day. Grandma took me around to the side of the house where a lovely Angel Wing begonia was planted. “I want to give this to you,” she said. I wanted that plant! But I think we both knew that sending it home with me would lead to its demise. And it did.

With Angelwing begonias

I wish I could tell her, “I’m doing better now, Grandma!”

I’m glad Grandma had some retirement years with her plants in town. I wish she had had more time there. Sadly Grandma suffered a stroke and spent the last eleven years of her life confined to a nursing home. When I remember her it’s often the nursing home years that come to mind. But it's more important to remember the inquisitive and opinionated dear grandmother with a deep Christian faith who was so fond of her family and wanted photos to show it.

And yes, as someone who worked really hard and loved flowers.