Grandma's Noodles

My best memories from my childhood are those of times spent with my grandparents, my grandmother in particular. She was a devout Christian woman who raised six children during the depression, and who never had an unkind word to say about anyone. Her own mother died when she was young, and she was raised by a family member. 

Neither Grandma or my mother ever drove. On Saturday mornings, my grandparents used to pick up my mom and I, and we went shopping. We did a lot of window shopping as I recall. I saved my meager allowance and spent it on clothes and accessories for my Barbie.

In the fall, we’d get in the car and drive out into the country, where we’d all get out on a secluded road and pick up walnuts. Back at home, my mom and Grandma cracked walnuts until their fingers were stained dark.

On Saturday evenings, Grandma washed her hair with Dial Shampoo. I still remember the scent. My mom set Grandma's hair in pincurls with bobby pins. My grandfather never attended church, but he drove Grandma every Sunday and they stopped to pick me up on the way. She sang in the choir and often sang solos in her sweet soprano voice. To this day I never hear O Holy Night without remembering her singing it at Christmas. Grandma never wore trousers. Even cooking, she wore a dress with an apron.

Grandma was a great cook, and we had a big dinner every Sunday after church. My aunts and uncles and cousins came too. She made noodles with every meal, even if there were potatoes. Now I realize it was one of the many ways she’d learned to stretch a meal. They had fruit trees, so apple and peach pies were a staple.

If there was a craft to be made, she tried her hand at it: Sewing, doll making, doll clothing, wreaths, tissue box covers. She never threw anything away, even reusing bread wrappers and twist ties. When the church choir got new robes, she’d always bring several home for the old wardrobe that sat in the basement. My cousins and I spent hours dressing up and putting on plays with those recycled choir robes.

Once during a snowstorm, I was riding with my grandparents, my grandfather driving, when we hit a patch of ice and the car slid and spun. My grandmother said one word: “Jesus!” The car stopped sliding, and we drove safely home. She lived her life as an example of a person who loved her Lord and her family, and a believer who trusted in the power of that mighty name of Jesus. I’m convinced her prayers for me played a big part in the person I am today.

I have a few beloved items that belonged to her and several recipes in her handwriting, but what most reminds me of her are the small moments, like when I’m spending time with my grandchildren, when I tie on an apron—or when I set a bowl of noodles on the table. I treasure those memories as I treasured her.