Those weekends at the Farm usually meant spending the days with my Grandma. Us girls always had plenty of work to do, which usually involved picking eggs, feeding the farm animals, picking vegetables, or making cookies- the cookie baking being a young girls treat! We would sit on the porch swing, enjoy our cookies, and watch the trucks go by on the highway.
During those weekends on the Farm, Grandma would pass the time by telling stories. Her stories were always about family, made me laugh, and taught me life lessons. Although, the life lessons were not realized until many years later.
As a young Mother, she raised three children and the family made a living selling cotton. The days she has told me stories about started at sunrise and ended with her as one of the last to lie her head on the pillow at night. The days were spent cooking meals, taking care of children, working the cotton fields - she did it all. The stories did not involve big houses, fancy clothes, sports, or pizza nights. Rather, they were more simple, and told of family and friends gathering on Friday nights for dominoes and good company. I know stories of her little ones being sick, her beaten black and blue by a Ram, and enduring many hot summer days working under the Texas sun. Through all her stories, I have never heard her complain. Stories describe life, and life is what you make it.
As an adult, her stories still make me laugh, smile, and more importantly, admire her wisdom and strength. This weekend, I visited Grandma for a different reason - she is ill. Our roles were reversed these last few days with me sitting at her bedside, holding her hand, and telling her stories. For the record, I am not nearly as good of a story teller. As we sat and I talked, again I found myself admiring her strength and her wisdom. Even without many words, her eyes tell a hundred stories. My Grandma is one of the strongest women I know. A woman that I will one day tell my own stories about. A woman I am proud to call Grandma.