kissing the mirror
Friday, June 4, 2010
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Oklahoma
"For the Lord our God is He who brought us and our fathers up out of the land of Egypt, from the house of bondage, and who did these great signs in our sight and preserved us through all the way we went and among all the peoples whose midst we passed." Joshua 24:17
My Grandpa B, my father's father, was a white haired, quiet, almost shy old man. We'd visit him and Gramma on Sundays after church. Grampa didn't have a high opinion of television and even when he finally broke down and let my aunt bring a black and white into his front room, viewing was limited to the news and television evangelists like Oral Roberts. The only reading material was a well worn Bible on a small table by his easy chair. They didn't have games or toys. I'd fight my brother Barry for Gramma's easy chair, sink in and listen to Grampa's stories. Perhaps it was sensory deprivation that glued me to my seat, but I think it was the stories. Grampa was from Oklahoma and Okies are storytellers.
While Gramma busied herself preparing the traditional farmer's Sunday spread, Grampa told us how he grew up and about how he had courted and won Gramma. He had a great story of how he had been drafted during the big war, made it reluctantly through boot camp and then was spared from the carnage in the trenches at the last minute, literally standing in formation to board a ship bound for Europe when the Armistice was declared. He had tales of happy days spiced with humor, but by far most of his stories were the saga of hardship that began shortly after my father was born.
In the 1930's a drought of biblical proportions stuck Oklahoma at the hour that America was experiencing the severest depression in its history. Plains states farmers saw their fields turn to dust and literally blow away, and with no crops and no cash to make payments, they lost their farms and scattered in the wind. Grampa was a good farmer. He held out long after many of his neighbors were long gone. The banks never foreclosed on him. When he finally decided that it was time to leave he saddled up a horse and rode the countryside announcing that he was selling out. The farm and stock were in good shape and even in a glutted market Grampa was able to find buyers.
Grampa loaded up his family and whatever they could take with them and set off in search of work and greener pastures. I wonder if he knew then that it would be years before he would finally settle down again in a place to call his own. I've seen photos of Grampa from that time. He isn't a gentle old man. He is solid and strong. He has a full head of dark hair, serious eyes and determination. He looks like one tough customer.
They set out and crossed that wilderness called America, a desert cruel and unforgiving to those who are poor and down on their luck. They never stayed too long in one place. They didn't make friends. Grampa made sure that his family never lacked for the things they really needed. They never missed a Sunday at church or a day of school. The other things he left to God. Things like food. Things like shelter. And the good Lord provided. A lot of the time He sustained them with ordinary, boring miracles; wonders people take for granted until they're lost in the wilderness. Like getting a job and living in a house. Miracles like the kindness of strangers. But sometimes there were the big rub-your-eyes-and-look-again miracles. Miracles like living in a tent and the whole family is on its knees praying 'cause there's NO food and the next morning a bread truck overturns and you wake up to find hundreds of loaves spread out like manna from heaven in front of the tent.
They came to Oregon, a good land. My grandfather made a good life for his family there and lived out his days in his own home. His children and his children's children all settled in the good land and live there to this day. All but one.
That exodus from Oklahoma was a watershed; nothing would ever be the same again. Grampa would speak of Oklahoma like the Israelites remembering Egypt; in one breath he could recall the foregone goodness of the land and with the next recant with an account of her cruelty. It was the wilderness that molded my father's family. It bonded them one to the other and shaped their characters. God had never and would never be as close and real as He was in the hour of their need.
I am not telling Grampa's story. I can't, it's not my own. But I think my story begins where his left off. I was born in the good land, but turned back to the wilderness. Like my grandfather, my story is about a journey. In my travels I have found new things, but I think that deep down I am searching for something I lost somewhere on my way. Maybe when I find it I will be able to enter the good land.
My Grandpa B, my father's father, was a white haired, quiet, almost shy old man. We'd visit him and Gramma on Sundays after church. Grampa didn't have a high opinion of television and even when he finally broke down and let my aunt bring a black and white into his front room, viewing was limited to the news and television evangelists like Oral Roberts. The only reading material was a well worn Bible on a small table by his easy chair. They didn't have games or toys. I'd fight my brother Barry for Gramma's easy chair, sink in and listen to Grampa's stories. Perhaps it was sensory deprivation that glued me to my seat, but I think it was the stories. Grampa was from Oklahoma and Okies are storytellers.
While Gramma busied herself preparing the traditional farmer's Sunday spread, Grampa told us how he grew up and about how he had courted and won Gramma. He had a great story of how he had been drafted during the big war, made it reluctantly through boot camp and then was spared from the carnage in the trenches at the last minute, literally standing in formation to board a ship bound for Europe when the Armistice was declared. He had tales of happy days spiced with humor, but by far most of his stories were the saga of hardship that began shortly after my father was born.
In the 1930's a drought of biblical proportions stuck Oklahoma at the hour that America was experiencing the severest depression in its history. Plains states farmers saw their fields turn to dust and literally blow away, and with no crops and no cash to make payments, they lost their farms and scattered in the wind. Grampa was a good farmer. He held out long after many of his neighbors were long gone. The banks never foreclosed on him. When he finally decided that it was time to leave he saddled up a horse and rode the countryside announcing that he was selling out. The farm and stock were in good shape and even in a glutted market Grampa was able to find buyers.
Grampa loaded up his family and whatever they could take with them and set off in search of work and greener pastures. I wonder if he knew then that it would be years before he would finally settle down again in a place to call his own. I've seen photos of Grampa from that time. He isn't a gentle old man. He is solid and strong. He has a full head of dark hair, serious eyes and determination. He looks like one tough customer.
They set out and crossed that wilderness called America, a desert cruel and unforgiving to those who are poor and down on their luck. They never stayed too long in one place. They didn't make friends. Grampa made sure that his family never lacked for the things they really needed. They never missed a Sunday at church or a day of school. The other things he left to God. Things like food. Things like shelter. And the good Lord provided. A lot of the time He sustained them with ordinary, boring miracles; wonders people take for granted until they're lost in the wilderness. Like getting a job and living in a house. Miracles like the kindness of strangers. But sometimes there were the big rub-your-eyes-and-look-again miracles. Miracles like living in a tent and the whole family is on its knees praying 'cause there's NO food and the next morning a bread truck overturns and you wake up to find hundreds of loaves spread out like manna from heaven in front of the tent.
They came to Oregon, a good land. My grandfather made a good life for his family there and lived out his days in his own home. His children and his children's children all settled in the good land and live there to this day. All but one.
That exodus from Oklahoma was a watershed; nothing would ever be the same again. Grampa would speak of Oklahoma like the Israelites remembering Egypt; in one breath he could recall the foregone goodness of the land and with the next recant with an account of her cruelty. It was the wilderness that molded my father's family. It bonded them one to the other and shaped their characters. God had never and would never be as close and real as He was in the hour of their need.
I am not telling Grampa's story. I can't, it's not my own. But I think my story begins where his left off. I was born in the good land, but turned back to the wilderness. Like my grandfather, my story is about a journey. In my travels I have found new things, but I think that deep down I am searching for something I lost somewhere on my way. Maybe when I find it I will be able to enter the good land.
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