I Learned Mothering from Them: Part Three

Iris Rose Ott Olsen 1915-2008

All of us have two grandmothers. I am blessed to have called one my friend.

Memories of my Grandma Olsen start from when I was very young—eating hearty breakfasts, playing “the widow” in Rook games, sleeping on the floor of her bedroom when we’d visit Utah. I spent one week with her all by myself when I was eight years old, helping her prepare for her family’s reunion. I don’t remember the reunion, but I do remember my own personal tour of her station at the Snelgrove’s candy dipping factory and buying the biggest lollipop I ever saw. I was her Jenny-Girl, and I knew I was special.

Our adult relationship began just after I was married—when she and Grandpa moved from Salt Lake City to Orem. I spent a few afternoons helping her unpack her kitchen and fridge (that ancient rust fridge from the 60s, I’m sure). And we’d talk. She would tell me stories and stories and stories, and I would listen and laugh. She had a way of storytelling. And her southern Utah accent and dialect (karn for corn, fay-vor-ight for favorite) will stay with me always. I only lived three minutes away, a straight shot down 800 East, and I made this trip often.

About two years later, Heidi was born—her first great-grand. Heidi’s birth was frightening—emergency C-section, and we both could have died. When Grandma and Grandpa came to the hospital, Brad told them that they could go see Heidi in the NICU, but that I wasn’t allowed any visitors. Grandma recounted this experience to me many times. And every time her voice would catch on the words, “and I told Grandpa, she’s too little, she’ll never make it.” I wasn’t allowed to drive for two weeks, and Grandma would drive me to the hospital every day to see Heidi. As Heidi got bigger and stronger, Grandma would hold her and feast on her, and, just like I’d been her Jenny-Girl, Grandma now had her Heidi-Baby-Doll.

Grandma was in her late seventies then, but she watched Heidi while I finished my degree at BYU. Heidi went through a stage where she wouldn’t take a bottle, but Grandma insisted that when she’s hungry, she’ll eat. When I got back a few hours later, I found them on the couch, a cupful of milk in Grandma’s hand and tears running down both their faces. “I just couldn’t get her to take it, Honey.”

I had false labor with Tucker twice before he was actually born, and each time it came in the middle of the night. Each time I called my grandma, and each time she’d be up waiting for her Baby Doll with a freshly made bed on her bedroom floor, just like I used to sleep on.

Her memory was sharp until the end. She kept track of all five of her kids, their kids, and their kids’ kids. She knew who had had a baby, what the baby’s name was and how everyone was doing. Because that was what really mattered--all that mattered-- to her. She was never too busy for her family. Her vision got kind of bad and her hearing was worse, but she always wanted to be surrounded by her family, whether she could hear what was going on or not, whether it exhausted her for days afterward. When she could no longer physically help, she insisted she still know everything about all her extended family, even though she’d worry. Because, she said, "All I can do is pray now.” Straight from her mouth to God’s ears.

Mom and my sisters and I would stay with her every May so that we could attend Women’s Conference at BYU. She didn’t come, but she would love to hear us retell what we’d learned and talk with us into the night.

The last time I taught EFY at BYU in 2008, I surprised her on her doorstep with a phone call, since she could no longer hear the doorbell. “Grandma, it’s Jenny.” “How are you, Honey,?” “I’m at your door.” “Welllll.” And we sat on her couch and talked and laughed, just us. Just like we did when I lived three minutes down the street.

In the end, she was blessed to leave Earth quickly. And she was able to live on her own until the end—a remarkable feat for 93. Heidi and I were lucky enough to see her once more before she left. Although she was in a lot of pain, she was obviously happy to see us. Vain to the end, she kept saying, “Don’t remember your old Grandma this way.”

Grandma and I spent many hours sitting on her couch, hand in hand, just talking. And that’s when I realized we have the same hands. Grandma’s hands were never idle. She worked for years dipping chocolates for Snelgrove’s in Salt Lake, and she would dip hundreds of chocolates at Christmas, filling candy boxes for family and friends. She knew everyone’s favorites, and she’d always send you home with your hands full—mine were always mint and caramel. I remember running under many quilts up on frames as a little girl. Then, when quilting got too difficult, she’d crochet more and more: dishcloths, baby afghans, bedspreads. And she always had time “for a hand”—of Rook, or Spite and Malice. She never played to win; she just played to spend time with family. And she loved to read, whether she was “stretching out” after lunch or up late at night— with a wink she called it “m’ sleeping pill.” And if a baby was around, her hands would be full, “seein’ about the babes. I’ve always loved the babes.”

If only I can dedicate my hands to serving others the way she did.

Miss you, Grandma.

Love,

your Jenny-Girl

This week I'm writing about women in my life who have helped shape me into who I am today. On Friday, I invite you to join me in a little Mother's Day writing challenge. It seems that most women detest Mother's Day because of the guilt it conjures. We are all too hard on ourselves as women. We have faults, but we also have strengths. So:
What is one weakness you have when it comes to mothering (only one)? And now that you've identified it, how are you going to improve?
What is one of your strengths? Feel free to brag yourself up, either seriously or with humor.
On Friday, I will attempt a link post (we'll see if I'm that technically adept or not), so all can be edified thereby. Think about it. You have time. I look forward to Friday.