Looking out my Backdoor: In praise of my not-so-nice Grandma

Grandma raised me. When I was born, my Dad was overseas fighting in The War. My Mom had what we today call mental health issues.

For all know, from stories told me by that side of the family, she might have been Mad as the Proverbial Hatter. Uncles and Aunts rescued me often and I’m sure they were glad to hand me and Mom over to Dad when he returned.

My Dad was a farmer. He loved farming. He loved my Mom. Mom loved Dad. Mom did not love farming. I was 3 when my sister was born. By the time I was 4 and my little sister, who, by the way, was in braces for feet problems, Dad knew he could not keep us safe. Mom was taken to the State Hospital and was there until de-institutionalization in the ’70s.

Years later, when Mom was dying, a doctor reviewing her file at the Hospital, told my Aunt and me that a big part of Mom’s problem was post-natal depression and today (early ’80s), she would have been treated much differently.

All my Aunts and Uncles had young children. I don’t imagine they were fighting over who got raise us. Rightly so. Dad wanted to keep us with him. As a child, I did entertain fantasies of living with one or another of my numerous relatives.

After having brought up seven of her own, Grandma came to our house to raise me and my sister, Judy. Grandma didn’t like me. In defense of this woman who had a child-free life in Indiana and came to the wind-swept valley in Montana, I understand.

Grandma doted on Judy who was a neglected baby. Grandma thought I had gotten all the loving.

Not so. Having somewhat raised myself, I might have been a brat. I don’t know. The way Grandma handled it was to lavish Judy with love and to teach me the rudiments of Everything Housekeeping until I was deemed old enough to handle the household on my own. Then Grandma boarded the train back home to Indiana.

That might sound like Judy got the best deal and the young me would have agreed. The older me, long years ago figured that perhaps I got the better deal.

Cooking put me onto this train of thought. Tracy sent me a recipe for a simple Middle-Eastern dish consisting of lentils, rice and caramelized onions. This is not a dish my Grandma would have made. If I could set a plateful in front of her, she would not eat it.

Grandma taught me basic farm-style cooking. Meat, potatoes, vegetables. Pie or cake with dinner because that’s how we ate. Grandma would never have gone out to the herb pots to grab handfuls of aromatic leaves for seasoning. Seasonings came from McNess.

At Grandma’s side I made slaw, pickles, butter and jams. Anything you would find on a farm dinner table, she taught me to make. Canning, preserving, rendering lard, preparing meats and veggies for the freezer, I did it. I did laundry, cleaned house, made soap. I learned to sew, to embroider, to crochet.

Judy, always younger, never lifted a finger. We talked about this years later.

That sounds fierce, but it wasn’t. I found spare time to poke my nose into numerous books, some of them forbidden.

The best thing Grandma did, a side-effect perhaps of her training me up in the way I should go, was teach me to solve problems, to think things out for myself.

For example, consider this dish I’m cooking, which smells delicious, by the way. Tracy’s recipe serves six people. I ignored the recipe, the ingredients are simple, so I pared it down for myself.

I think of my mean Grandma often. I think of her fondly. Near the end of her life, she told me why she treated my neglected sister and me (maybe much loved), differently. She told me she was wrong. I hugged her, very aware of the sacrifices she had made for us.

I’m not so sure she was wrong so much as out of balance in how she raised us. She did a huge thing to give up 10 years of her life to raise another family. She gave me gifts I use daily.

I love you, Grandma. By the way, this dish I just cooked is scrumptious.

Caramelize thrice the onions than you think you will need. Use an equal amount of lentils and rice. Pre-cook lentils so the lentils and rice will finish at the same time. I dumped lentils and rice into chicken broth, seasoned with salt, pepper, cumin and garam masala. Stirred in the caramelized onions the last five minutes. I ate mine with a dollop of sour cream. Yogurt would be good. Or a tomato-cucumber salad. Or hard-boiled egg to make pretty. Enjoy.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].