Nothing ever wasted at Grandma's house

Grandma Della admires flowers she received for her

birthday during the mid-1950s. Note her ceramics at left.

My Grandma Della was into the "green" movement way before it was cool. She was a recycler supreme, you might say.

Grandma was a product of her times. She and Grandpa Henry raised four kids on a Nebraska farm during the Great Depression of the 1930s. With little money they had to make do with whatever was available -- and to make things last. Repairing, reusing, repurposing, handing down clothes to younger siblings, sewing, mending, and making things by hand was part of life.

They lived in Los Angeles when I was a kid, just a few blocks from our house, so we spent lots of time there. It was easy to spot their driveway, just two ribbons of concrete in the lawn running all the way back to the garage.

Grandma knew we liked to color so she had crayons, pencils and charcoal on hand, plus an ample supply of recycled butcher paper to meet our artistic demands. In those days grocery markets and butcher shops wrapped meat in heavy pink or white paper. We generally preferred the white paper for our masterpieces.

Grandma was an accomplished artist in her own right. She hooked rugs, crocheted doilies, created wonderful ceramics and painted in oils, among other artistic pursuits.

For years she had the same time-tested "playthings" available for us kids . . . and we loved them. Wooden pickup sticks, puzzles, dominos, Chinese checkers, Tiddly Winks, kaleidoscope, dolls for the girls, and if we were extra careful, a View Master viewer with 3-D picture reels of exotic countries. There was a chain swing in back for outdoor play.

Grandma encouraged us to keep scrapbooks and got me started on stamp collecting, a life-long hobby. As we grew older, the game of choice was Scrabble.

It was easy to find rubber bands, string, or aluminum foil; Grandma kept balls of each. Lots of paper bags, too. And it wasn't in her nature to waste pencils. When the pencil stub was too short for Grandpa's hand-crank sharpener in the garage, she bared the lead with a paring knife to eke out a few more days' use. Ever try speed writing with a pencil nub? Not easy.

Grandma was the family barber and she had a favorite cut for the guys -- white sidewalls . . . high and tight. Haircuts were given in the kitchen where there was a small brown tube radio affixed to the wall under the cabinets. Since they were church-going people, that radio played religious programming and news broadcasts only.

For years their electricity bills were low since they didn't own a television, clothes dryer, garbage disposer, or dishwasher. Their telephone was on a party line. But when family was around, doing the dishes was a social affair. There was happy talk on the dish-washing assembly line while one washed and rinsed, the next one towel dried, and another put the dishes and utensils away. Grandpa cut and edged his immaculate lawn with hand mowers.

Grandpa Henry and Grandma Della

 

During family gatherings it was a treat when Grandpa made a batch of popcorn. You could hear him sliding the popping corn pot back and forth over the gas burner and soon its exquisite aroma filled the air. The evening was made even better when Grandma sang and played hymns on the piano or (later) organ.

Although I'm a big fan now, back then I didn't appreciate some of Grandma's foods . . . yogurt, wheat germ, skim milk, Grape-Nuts, eggplant and the like. I still can't abide Limburger cheese, though. And she never wasted an ounce of food . . . her refrigerator was always full of little glass cups of leftovers to be used in one upcoming dish or another.

Grandma did volunteer work for the Red Cross. Once a week, she joined other ladies around a large table in a neighborhood garage to sew blankets and other items for local hospitals. This was a carryover from World War II and some of the ladies were well into their 80s.

The neighborhood was well kept with blooming flowers, trees and shrubs . . . and there was always something going on. You could hear Rudy across the street practicing melodious runs on the piano, watch Watkins or Fuller Brush sales people going door to door, or chat with Mr. or Mrs. Zimmerman one door to the west. Once or twice a week the vegetable man drove the street, honking his horn to let folks know his truck was full of fresh produce for sale.

I cherish those sweet memories of Grandma and Grandpa. Life is so much better because of them.

Grandma, Johnny, Mom, Dad and Kenny in 1958.