I was fortunate to have two grandmothers growing up. Today is the birthday of my grandmother called “Gommie” by her grandkids.
Just the thought or mention of her name brings a plethora of emotions and memories. It brings memories of curling up next to her on the sofa whether sitting quietly or being rewarded with a story, lumpy gravy, a trip to her beloved mountains, a visit to her cabin and “Gommie’s Lake,” a place of refuge, a place of safety, a peaceful place.
She was the family historian. People of all ages would gravitate to her house. Everyone was accepted into her home. In her younger days, she was a horse wrangler and a horse midwife for her brother on the ranch. She was a lady who could box your ears or dunk a sassy mouthed kid in a bucket of water. She could make the kids walk a fine line or play with them like a kid herself. “Babe,” as she was called by many, was a beloved girl at any age who was endeared to family and lifelong friends. She was a good neighbor and could throw together a meal in no time for whoever showed up at her dinner table.
Gommie & Poppy 1916 
Gommie, 1922
When she married my English grandfather, she didn’t know much about cooking. Poppy’s partner, Ernest, taught her to cook. One day she made biscuits. After they had set out for a while, she saw a mouse in the kitchen, picked up a biscuit and threw it. It hit the mouse and killed it.
One time on a trip to Montana, Daddy stopped in Wall, South Dakota in late afternoon. He decided we’d drive on through, so he wanted to call Gommie and tell her we’d be in about 1 a.m. He went to the pay phone but discovered he had no change so made a collect call. Gommie answered. The operator said, “You have a collect call from Mr. Ward.” She said, “I don’t want no damn ford!” and slammed down the phone.
She was like a mama bear to any who dared mess with her kids or grandkids, yet she was a soft squishy teddy bear who offered a snuggly resting place. Her black dancing eyes spoke volumes. They could pierce a proud tongue, and one look could shoot arrows that stopped unacceptable behavior in its tracks. Those same eyes, black and soft, could penetrate the very depths of the soul and warm the coldest of hearts. Gommie did not live by idle words. Before she spoke, she asked herself, “Is it true, is it kind, is it necessary?”
When we visited her place, we had hot tea every day. We got to pick the tea cup of our choice and use as much sugar and cream as we wanted. I was always extra careful not to break any of her fine china. That love of hot tea and the memories that linger are now shared with my own grandchildren.
A poem by C R Gibson, we know as Gommie’s Creed, reflects her character and convictions:
I have wept in the night
at my shortness of sight
that to others’ needs made me blind.
But I never have yet
had a twinge of regret
for being a little too kind.
August 2019