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Grandma's Treasures

By Mindy Hoffbauer

The scent of lavender filled the air, transporting me into the past. Opening the box of my grandmother’s essays, letters and poetry I’d just inherited, I knew I was holding a treasure trove. Like the purple rosette soaps, these were the things she’d saved; Grandma never would use “the good stuff” on herself.

Being an only child of a single parent, I spent half my time with my grandmother. She taught me to read. We watched new Waltons episodes together every week, and read the book on which the show was based. We played the piano and sang together. I “helped” her can tomatoes and shell peas from Grandpa’s garden. Once while she was at the door welcoming out-of-town guests, I snuck into the kitchen and ate the skin off all the pumpkin pies, thinking she’d never know because the tops would “grow back.” Instead of yelling at me (not her style), she quickly slathered whipped cream over my miscalculation.

I thought I knew my grandmother well.

And I did know her — as a grandmother. I knew how she always left the margarine tub sitting on the kitchen table so it melted into the rolls; that she brought in freshly cut peonies in May, despite the ants that always accompanied them. (Turns out they loved the soft margarine, too.) I knew she bought most of my clothes because my mother couldn’t afford them.

Who I didn’t know was my grandmother as a young farm girl, the one who brought in the cows each evening. Or that she and her brother slept in the front room on sweltering nights. Or the girl who listened to the radio, writing down each play of the Reds baseball game to share with her father when he came in from the fields.

I didn’t know the girl who graduated at 16 and then moved “to town” to board with her grandparents while she attended business school. Or the young woman who dated and married my grandfather, while her best friend married his brother.

I didn’t know the young mother who had to raise two energetic boys alone while my grandfather was serving in World War II. Or the woman who boarded a crowded bus on Christmas Eve with those little boys to travel to her mother’s, who had just gotten word that her only son, my grandmother’s brother, had been killed in that same war.

Ten years after Grandma had passed away, I combed through that soap-scented box of essays and letters, learning who my grandmother really was. Writing is a powerful tool, able to transport us back in time — sometimes even before our time — an express ride to the past, fueled with lavender rosettes.

— Mindy Hoffbauer

Mindy Hoffbauer is a professional explainer. During the past couple decades, Mindy has worked as a technical writer (just like Erma!), editor, social media manager, online help developer, corporate trainer and English adjunct instructor, among other things. She lives in Bellbrook, Ohio (just like Erma did!), has two grown children, and is married to a University of Dayton grad (just like Guess-Who?). In her spare time, she writes mostly nonfiction, reads mostly fiction and works diligently to deepen her laugh lines.

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