FAMILY REUNIONS-Remembering the Past

My family has always been important to me. I was very fortunate to grow up with much love from both sides of my family. My mother’s side was very verbal and affectionate in showing their love. My father’s side showed love in acts of kindness and quality time. Both sides loved to have family reunions.

One of the most special times for me was getting my aunts, uncles, and grandparents, and great aunts and great uncles to tell stories of “the old days.” I loved to ask question after question. They seemed to love to tell story after story. Therefore, I would often find myself with the adults instead of the rest of the children because I wanted to learn and to know. I liked delving into the past. I loved learning about my great grandparents and great-great grandparents. I loved those little bits someone would remember about the old country, and the nationalities we came from, and the stories of coming to America. Hearing the stories helped me to know them somehow, even though they had been gone for decades. Hearing the stories, helped me understand family patterns, and many of the relatives of the current generation. Also, I somehow wound up knowing and understanding myself even better during a time when, “who am I?” was a question with which I was constantly wrestling as I was growing up.

I was one of the oldest grandchildren, so I was able to tap the memories of those who had passed on before some of the younger grandchildren came along. Sometimes I ended up being the one who was asked the questions. It was a honor to relay the stories I had heard repeated again and again from a loved one who was now in Glory.

Just recently, I spent an hour on the phone with my youngest brother. He is 14 years my younger. I think he was at a point in time where he was seeking understanding and answers for his life. He asked me to repeat several of the stories I remembered. He even said, “Thanks Tam, that really helps me.” I am not exactly sure how, he didn’t fully divulge that. But I do know that sometimes the past, helps us understand the now and can help give direction to our future.

I think this has also been very helpful as I have raised my own children. I see family traits being passed along to them. We can celebrate the good qualities. We can also understand some of the not so good tendencies, and ask God to intervene and protect in those areas.

I don’t have grandchildren yet, but I sure have a plethora of great family stories to share with them someday. Maybe it can help them navigate life too.

FRIED POTATOES

My grandmother was affectionately known to all her grandchildren as “Mam.” She was 100% English. Her father was from the aristocracy, and her mother was from the lower class. A true romantic, her father left England for the United States because his family disowned him after he married her mother.

My mother’s side was extremely affectionate. Much of this affection came from my Mam. She was always quick to give you a smooch on the lips, or pull you up on her lap to be rocked. We all grew up with tons of kisses and hugs. Love was to be felt. This legacy continues through me to my own children. My daughters will still plop down on my lap for a snuggle and they are in their twenties. My son is quick to plant a kiss on my lips, even in front of his college friends.

Her generosity did not stop with affection. She was generous in many ways. One way she showed her ability to give and give was when she’d make fried potatoes. Often, when she’d start preparing lunch, friends would pop in for a visit. Mam would just pull out another of her huge cast iron frying pans, and wash, pare and slice it full of potatoes. Once I remember there being many of the grandchildren, and several friends who happened by, and she had four black iron skillets full of potatoes frying. Mam bought Heinz ketchup by the gallon for all the potatoes we’d eat. I remember her potatoes stretching like the loaves and fishes in the gospel. Mam was always willing to cook for and feed others out of compassion, much like Christ’s for the masses. Her fried potatoes became renowned.

There always was enough to go around, even though they didn’t have much. Many of Mam’s pastors and their families found refuge in her home around her kitchen table. It’s no wonder that two of her daughters ended up becoming pastor’s wives. It’s no wonder several of her grandchildren became preacher’s kids.

Through Mam’s example, we were taught the blessing of hospitality. She exemplified it well for us. One didn’t need the finest or the best to be hospitable. You only needed to be willing to offer whatever you had. Mam only needed a kitchen table, a scoop of lard, an onion or two, a few cast iron skillets, a bit of ketchup, and a bin full of potatoes. I can hear her voice now telling me, "Keep the bin full, and never turn anyone away!"

PAP-Protective Strength

My maternal grandfather was affectionately called “Pap” by all of us grandchildren. I called him Pap when I first could form the word until the day he died. My Pap was my protector. He was larger than life. He was a very manly man. He was a tough as they come.

Some of my earliest memories of him are of him working or involved in some type of activity. He was often found on a ladder, lying under a car, up in a tree stand, cutting grass, shining shoes, cleaning guns, tilling the garden, etc... He kept a muscular figure even as he aged because of all this activity.

Pap was an oxymoron. He was as tough as nails to the outside world, yet loving and affectionate to those blessed enough to be called family. As a very young child I loved being in his lap with his rugged arms and hands embracing me in a heartfelt hug. He had a very deep bass voice that could resonate in a chest cavity when he wanted to get your attention, but how tender that voice was when he was attempting to sooth your pain while cleaning and bandaging a cut. Pap could stomp through any kind of wooded land and cover more ground than anyone in his work boots, yet he could glide on the living room floor in his Sunday shoes, with my grandmother in his arms like Fred Astaire.

My love for him began as an infant. Those rugged arms held me, that deep voice spoke to me, and his lips kissed me my first day in this world. I had the privilege of spending my first five years next door to him. I always felt safe and secure with him around. In fact, when I was 4 and 5, my mother would allow me to walk over to his house with a flashlight before bed just to give him a kiss and hug goodnight. Somehow, I just felt safer when I laid down and closed my eyes at night after having been with him.

One of my last precious memories of him, was when I took my three young children to see him when he was laying in bed, dying from pancreatic cancer. I lived several hours away and had just had my youngest child. I wanted her and Pap to meet before he died. She was only several weeks old. He was pretty wracked with pain, but still wanted to hold her. I laid her down on his chest, he wrapped his weakened arms around her, softly kissed her on the head, and deeply breathed in her baby freshness. He spoke to her in that deep, soothing voice of his.

He died a few days after that. I remember being thankful that all my children had a chance to be wrapped in his arms and experience his loving, protective strength.