Most summers of my early childhood, my family packed our bags, and drove away from the sunny palm trees of southern California to red dirt expanse of Oklahoma.
My great grandparents were cotton farmers and cattle ranchers, and my mom and dad were determined that we would know them.
They lived in a tiny five room house on acres and acres of cotton fields. I didn’t recognize it then, but the smell of natural gas generally pervaded the kitchen, and the odor still reminds me of that house to this very day.
The wood-paneled walls of the living room had ancient sepia photographs framed in real gold-leaf frames of babies in bonnets and brides and grooms with dour faces.
The parlor was fancy with flowery sofas. The doorbell hung on the wall with big brass pipes exposed. The bathtub in the one and only bathroom was pink, and the “ice box” always held much-coveted bottles of Coca-cola.
Granny was the matriarch. She ran the show, had a lot to say, and was a true lady. Southern to the core, she loved us with a fierce love. Even though a stroke had left her somewhat immobile, we all instinctively knew that we wanted Granny on our side, come what may.
Grandad was a quiet man. He was strong and kind, with a twinkle in his eye and wry grin on his mouth. He always had a roll of money in his shirt pocket, and I think he was mostly a good-hearted rascal who like to make a little mischief for fun.
I suppose the years had taught Grandad the difference between a big problem and a bit of trouble. He had lived through the depression, world wars, the loss of his son in the Korean War, and I’m sure after many years of ranching and farming, drought and rain, births and deaths, life’s ups and downs had brought a good deal of wisdom to him.
Which explains how he reacted to the wreck in the driveway.
Grandad left the house one morning, off to town for something, or to feed the cows, I’m not really sure. We watched him walk out and a few minutes later we heard a loud crash.
We all ran outside and found our van smashed up a good bit, and Grandad’s truck heading off down the road.
He had hit our car and then he just left.
Perplexed, we went back in the house and waited for his return.
When he got back, he said he had forgotten that our van was parked right there when he backed out. But that when he saw the damage, and knew there was nothing he could do about it right then, he went ahead and got on with his morning duties.
My dad just laughed and shook his head.
Today this story came flooding back to me as my children and and I discussed big problems and small problems. Deadly snake loose in the house? Big problem. Toast that came out too crispy? Small problem. Hole in the roof during a rainstorm? Big problem. All out of milk? Small problem.
Our responses need to be guided by the size of our problems. No screaming over a broken cookie, please. But if your arm is broken, go ahead and let it rip.
I am grateful for the red dirt summers of my childhood. I hope Grandad’s wisdom grows in the hearts of my children, and in my own, too.
As a child, I didn’t realize what a gift those long drives across deserts and mountains were, but now I do. Life is full of small moments that become big blessings, and sometimes it takes time to find out the difference.
Big and small aren’t always what they appear to be. Grandad would be proud to hear me say that, I think.
