It all goes back to Workshire.
Workshire is the name bestowed on the property that my Nana & Gramps bought in the winter of 1945/46 in Estes Park, and ran as a small motel (cottages) for many decades. Well, the motel's name was (and still is) Workshire Lodge, but we all just called it Workshire. Workshire is the inspiration for my coming up with the name Workwood (you still haven't asked me what that means, you know). Workshire is my favorite place in the mountains. Workshire is my 2nd home. Workshire is where I often wish I could spend just a little more time, as I used to know it. That is, with my Nana & Gramps there.
They're both gone now, but I think often about them, and in particular about how they gave us advice, often in the form of a story. Today was a particularly Workshire-type day. I finished painting my kitchen cabinets, and as I was peeling the masking tape off, I thought how very fortunate I am to have my own place, which I only have because of the generosity and compassion of my parents. And they have told me in the past that they are simply passing on the generosity that their parents (my Nana & Gramps -- my mother's parents, and my Grandma & Grandpa -- my dad's parents) showed to them. And so I am grateful not only to my parents, but to my grandparents.
I was feeling particularly domestic today, so decided to make a batch of cookies. And if I'm not making cookies for a special occasion which might call for a specific recipe, I'm gonna make Cowboy Cookies. And that recipe came to me from my mom, who got it from Nana. I learned a hard lesson today about having the right amount of flour in the cookies, but that's another story. And it didn't occur to me at the time, but if I think about making cookies and about Nana at the same time, the "magic line" will pop to mind at some point. How she (a) got us to believe that a magic line existed across the kitchen from the end of the counter to the breakfast table and (b) made us understand the importance of staying behind it (which kept us out of her way while making whatever goodies she was whipping up) is beyond my ken. But then, she could be pretty emphatic when she needed to.
But what capped off this Workshire day were the tapes. I suppose we've all rolled our eyes a bit when my dad gets out his camera(s), but then, at some point later, we come to appreciate it. Like today. I was looking for a DVD to pop in for background noise while I was making these so-called cookies, and I spotted a stack of VHS tapes. I looked through them, and found a tape of the family gathering we had to celebrate my Nana & Gramps' 65th anniversary in 1999. I put the tape in, and had a few good laughs at the various stories that we kids & grandkids put together for the gathering. My uncle Jim, in particular, put the story of their meeting into a very clever poem, and then into a western novel-style tale. There are some great shots in this video of my Nana & Gramps hearing these stories and adorations, and being very humble about it, while still clearly loving the family gathering itself.
My favorite tape, however, is that of Nana & Gramps reading the stories that they used to read to us as we drifted off to sleep, or as we sat on their laps while waiting for the rainstorm to pass so we could go out and play again. My parents, in the winter of 1996, convinced Jim & Virginia (they had real names, though we grandkids would never have dreamed of calling them anything other than Nana & Gramps) to sit in front of a video camera and read these stories to virtual children. And I couldn't be more grateful. As I type this, Nana is reading the story of the How The Elephant Got It's Trunk (a.k.a. The Elephant's Child), which is possibly my favorite story of all time -- not because I understood all the finer points of Rudyard Kipling's writing style, but because of how Nana & Gramps read it. To this day, I occasionally refer to my own 'satiable curtiosity, all because I'd heard about such a thing so many times in my childhood.
How many people have this kind of amazing gift? The gift of the tape itself was appreciated that Christmas day when I opened it, and I thanked my parents for making it and giving it to me, but every time I watch it (especially now that Nana & Gramps are gone), I realize that the real gift was from them -- not just in reading them while sitting in front of that camera, but for all the stories they ever told us. Bedtime stories like the Teeny Tiny Woman (which I'm hearing Gramps read now), but also the anecdotes that they shared throughout our lives. In fact, that's one of my other most prized possessions -- my book of stories from my Nana & Gramps. No, not a published book of children's stories that they purchased and wrapped, but a comb-bound book of stories that they took the time to write down (at my parents behest), type out, copy and bind.
All 4 of my grandparents were fantastic storytellers, and my parents (seeing the value these stories would have in our future) gave them all blank books one Christmas, and asked them to write down the stories. Grandma & Grandpa never did (though we've got plenty of their tales on audio or video tape from family reunions), but Nana & Gramps wrote down their stories as requested (I suspect Nana was the engine behind this). Nana gave us a complete history of their lives, including such priceless tidbits as the addresses of the places they lived (407 S. Williams is where Nana's parents lived, and where the wedding was held), details about the great-grandparents and great-uncle I never met, and quips about how Nana & Gramps met (a wet dishtowel and a short chase around a camp figured prominently). Gramps' tales were more short anecdotes about his life -- most of them involving him getting in trouble somehow (this seemed to be a recurring theme) ;). And those of us that knew him can just hear his deep voice again as we read these quips, and can picture how he would have carried his towering figure, and fidgeted with those enormous hands, as he recounted these tales. And that smile. Always with a sly smile beying the mischief that never quite worked its way out of his system.
I find myself at times, as I'm telling a story to someone, reminding myself of Nana or Gramps in my mannerisms. And nothing could please me more. Stories were a big part of life at Workshire, and that's one of the gifts I most treasure from them. I'm pretty sure it's that background that leads me to occasionally putting some of my thoughts into words and posting them here for your perusal. In fact, even though you can't see in your mind how my big, strong, mischievous Gramps would have told this story of his boyhood, or how my Nana's eyebrows would have raised at just the right moment to give the appropriate emphasis in her tale of how she met Gramps, you may get a little giggle from these 2 tales, and that's as much as I can ask for. My little gift to you -- from Nana & Gramps.
Excerpt from Nana's account of how she and Gramps met
...For that same weekend at [Geneva Glen] Camp, Mr. Gilmore had recruited a young man to drive the truck up from Denver with the supplies, and to wash the dishes while we girls dried them. The fellow's name was Jim something-or-other. He was 19 years, a student at D.U. Business College. He was tall; red-haired and completely disinterested in the five devastatingly attractive 16-year old girls that were his co-workers for the weekend. We flirted and teased, but he wouldn't bat an eyelash -- just looked straight ahead, washing the dishes as if it were the only important thing on earth.
The more "Jim" ignored us the more brazen we girls became. Finally, in a desperate attempt to get some kind of rise out of him I began to flick the end of my dish towel at him. No response. In one daring move I "flicked" a little too close---. To my surprise and horror, Jim whirled around, grabbed the towel from me and chased me around the big camp kitchen, popping me with the towel at every step. I was really half-scared, and I knew I had it coming. Little did I know, that day, that we would be married four years later!
Gramps' tale of "How To Walk On A Barn Roof"
At the age of about nine, my chum Harold and I were left alone one afternoon. We loved to climb around on the roof of our barn but it was a little steep for easy walking without slipping. For some unknown reason my father had part of a wooden barrel of tar in the barnyard. Harold and I discovered that by first putting our feet (we did have shoes) in the barrel and then walking on the barn roof we no longer slipped off.
Harold finally had to go home and as I felt the need of refreshment I went into our kitchen. My favorite treat was two or three spoonfuls of sugar. This treat restored my energy and I realized suddenly that I was probably cut out to be a great dancer. I practiced my dips and loops on Mother's kitchen linoleum. My parents arrived home in due time, and something was said about the tar on the floor. Anyway I have never cared about dancing since then. I don't remember my Father's reaction to the footprints on the roof.
