Pastoral Ponderings:
A Shepherd's Blog

Toadstools

The sink outside nestled in a paved corner of the house. It was sheltered from wind and sun and the two walls corralled youngsters just enough so the adult busy at the sink could work without worry. Today the flowers were overflowing on the sideboard as they waited to be effortlessly arranged. I was delighting in the mass of color when a large black tarantula emerged from hiding behind the blooms and began crawling towards the sink where she was creating her floral arrangements. I would save her life.

When warned of the hairy creature, my grandmother failed to jump, grab me in her arms and run, screaming for help. The arachnid was merely a cause for interruption not alarm. She calmly disposed of the temporary annoyance and reassured me that lunch was but a few minutes away. Her aplomb confused me until I overheard her later describing the incident. I, her impertinent five year-old granddaughter, had earned her admiration for my own coolheadedness.

Our family, aunts, uncles and cousins would often converge at Castro Valley Ranch for Easter and Thanksgiving. The hacienda-style house with attached bedrooms gave each of the four families their own section in which to recharge in between long hikes and large family meals. All of us would gather in the living room that welcomed us with butterscotch leather couches huddled near the huge hand-hewn rock fireplace. An inlaid chessboard was always doted on by my older cousins, and a large majestic painting of my step-grandfather herding hundreds of horses across the golden California hills infused the room with western romance. The rustic area was ample enough to accommodate the relaxing adults and cozy enough for their growing families.

I was one of her eighteen grandchildren and, on occasion, would visit Grandma Gay by myself as I was at the time of the tarantula terror. Each of her grandchildren, too, enjoyed her undivided attention on their own solo visits. She had the uncanny ability to make each of us feel as if we were her only grandchild, as if our little lives were of the most pressing concern to her at all times. She didn’t cuddle us as much as she did inform us by including us in her daily routine whether we were a miserable five year-old or a melancholy fifteen year-old.

When in the city, Grandma Gay would open her apartment every day for afternoon tea. She never knew who would join her for the midday interlude but once it was 4:00 P.M., various acquaintances and mixed company of old friends would enter her home and enjoy good conversation and a stimulating cup of tea or two. Any visiting grandchildren were introduced and the older ones would join while the younger ones waited patiently for the extra tea cakes.

Just as tempting were the scented sensations of simmering pots of garden vegetables and of baking bread in the large ranch kitchen. There was no less respect required in this culinary sanctuary as there was in the apartment living room at tea time. The flower and vegetable garden as well as the chicken yard were tended meticulously and the bountiful daily harvests decided our family’s menu. When others turned their attention to potato scrubbing or stripping the leeks, my focus turned to a large artistic rendering of the fungi that grew abundantly in the surrounding cattle pastures. My grandmother harvested the wild mushrooms as naturally as she picked her blooms.

The mushroom chart depicted each variety with its hand-painted undersides as well as the stems and caps on a large poster of the quality of a botanical print. The column of mushrooms titled ‘toadstools’ attracted my attention the most. It wasn’t that the mushrooms looked any different than their non-lethal counterparts; it was the scene that the name conjured up in the fantasies of a young mind. I marveled at how Grandma Gay’s wisdom grew as we grew, and then I finally figured out that she shared it age-appropriately. The grandchildren were not allowed on the mushroom hunts until they were older and understood the danger. Our cognizance of life’s jeopardy grew in our adolescence and young adulthood, and with that growth so did our recognition of our grandmother as an exceptional person. She had encountered more than her share of disappointments, a philandering husband, and the tragedy of the loss of a thirty year-old son and daughter-in-law in a plane crash. She knew that we, too, would inevitably encounter our own difficulties.

As she shared her life with us, she prepared us for the tarantulas and toadstools, reassured us with the teacakes and bouquets and reminded us that wisdom is the acceptance of the one and the appreciation of the other.

copyright@2010.
Lance and Gay Columbel. All rights reserved.