Grandma Rosie and How to Survive
One afternoon this past week, I was in my kitchen rummaging around the fridge, trying to figure out how to mash some leftovers together into a coherent dinner. In days when we are trying to avoid going to the grocery store, this is what one does. I was standing there assessing the containers on my counter when the thought of my grandma came flooding over me. She passed away over 20 years ago but I have thousands of memories that I can see in vivid colour when I close my eyes. So why did I think of her now, exactly? Leftovers. My grandma NEVER threw anything away. Not plastic bread bags (who needs ziplocs?), not margarine containers (who needs tupperware?), and certainly not food.
The things my grandma could do with leftovers were magic and delicious. Even if dinner ended up being a weird looking hash, I ate every bite without complaining. And her baking! Oh my, I miss her desserts. Feeding people was her love language and nothing made her happier than seeing us moaning on the couch after a meal because we had eaten way too much.
I looked at the food, thought of the current state of the world, and leaned on the counter as I felt overwhelmed. But also encouraged. Rosie was a survivor. I looked up and said to one of my kids, “We have the DNA of survivors in our bodies. Actually, every human being on the planet right now has the DNA of survivors. We can do this.” She looked at me and nodded. Maybe because she got it, or maybe to keep me from going on a long mom rant/speech thing. I don’t know. But I do know that the thought began to ruminate and I lay awake that night thinking about my grandma.
My grandma. Rose Clara Pryznyk Corrigan. Daughter to Ukrainian immigrants and married to a wild Irishman. She was short and perfectly pear-shaped. She loved to laugh but also had more of an Irish temper than her husband. However, her grandchildren could do no wrong and she spent as much time with us as possible; spoiling us, cooking for us, taking us to movies. She always let me bake with her and she taught me how to make the best ever cup of hot cocoa. She took me all over Vancouver on the bus. We went to Chinatown where she knew a lot of the vendors and to Canadiens baseball games at Nat Bailey Stadium. She also convinced me that if I said “shite” like the Irish then it didn’t count as a swear word. My grade one teacher did not agree.
But most of my memories as a little girl with my grandma are just sitting with her as she told me detailed stories of her childhood. While my brothers were off playing, I would be curled up on the couch across from my grandma. To be honest, there were times when I wished that my best friend, Sally, from across the street would knock on the door to rescue me but, mostly, I loved it.
I heard about her 10 siblings. She was especially close to her sister Sophie. That is how she always referred to her; “My sister Sophie.” And I would say, “I know she was your sister, grandma!” And we would both giggle. She told me about how her little brother and sister, Joe and Olga, were so cute! And the saddest story was when, in one night, her two youngest siblings died of diptheria. My grandma was 7 or 8 at the time and remembered the little ones being laid out in the living room in their best clothes including new shoes. Shoes! She didn’t understand why they got shoes when they were usually too poor for my grandma to have shoes. Grandma told me how she still felt guilty for thinking such a selfish thing and I told her, “It’s O.K, grandma, you didn’t know!”
Rosie was raised in poverty in rural Saskatchewan and lived through both the “Dirty Thirties” and WWII. It was from these times that she learned to make a meal stretch and to never throw anything out. On more than one occasion, we found her rooting around in our kitchen garbage rescuing socks that one of us had thrown out because they had holes. She would scrub them clean and then darn them back to usefulness. For those of you who don’t know what it’s like to wear socks that have been darned, it is not pleasant. (If you are curious, you can try attaching a little piece of burlap to your foot before you put on your socks and shoes and walk around). We started to hide our old socks.
My grandma also survived a 19-year-old daughter running away from home and not knowing her whereabouts for ten years. She watched her husband die of cancer, and experienced one of her sons, my uncle, die in a plane crash. Yes, she lamented and grieved but she did not stop living. To be fair, she was gifted at pointing out the negative in any given situation but she kept going. Rosie kept cooking and serving her friends and neighbours by bringing meals if they were sick. She kept “traipsing” all over East Van to get the right ingredients for all our favourite meals. She never stopped.
In a time in history where, in our western culture, the last few generations have known unprecedented privilege, we may have forgotten that we have spines of steel and survivor blood in our veins. Not only do I have Grandma Rosie in my heritage, but I also have fierce Scots and fighting Irish. The Irish who survived on stone soup and seaweed. Not only do my children carry this DNA but they also harken back to the Mennonites who were chased and persecuted all across Europe. But they survived.
Of course, many of us will be able to find oppressors or tyrants or criminals or jerks in our family tree but, all of us, everyone one of us, has survivors. People with grit who knew how to make sacrifices; refugees, immigrants, soldiers or missionaries. People who have survived famines and wars and the Great Depression. Seen in a certain light, what we are facing now is not new but, rather, laced into the fabric of who we are. Therefore, we have what it takes to make it through and we can be courageous. It is important that we remind ourselves of that and, if we have children, we remind them, too. But is it just sheer human will and inner strength that caused our people to survive?
While the stories of our ancestors weave in and out with strength and triumph over great adversity, the tapestry could not exist without the faithful care of a sovereign God who has purposefully allowed each one of us to be here right now. It was only in the last few months that I really listened to my mom when she told me that her Scottish grandfather was converted at the age of 9 under the preaching of Horatio Bonnar during the Great Awakening. He went on to leave his home and become a minister of the gospel in Vancouver, BC. Over the years my husband’s parents have shared story after story of the redeeming work that God has done in the lives of their family members and forebears. Stories of miraculous provision, both physically and spiritually.
The one thing most of us have right now is time. While scrolling through Facebook I have seen many suggestions to parents for ways to “homeschool” their kids while schools are closed. I have varying opinions on that; some of the suggestions are fairly unrealistic and overwhelming. But what I would encourage all of us to do, parents or not, is to find out about the survivors in our past. While a certain website is making a fortune digging up ancestries for the curious, I would furthermore encourage you to ask the living. Ask your parents. Get your kids to ask their grandparents. Phone or skype or email. Make it a fun interview or an informal conversation.
In Psalm 78, the psalmist writes of the importance of handing the stories down from one generation to the next. “I will open my mouth in a parable; I will utter dark sayings from of old, things that we have heard and known, that our fathers have told us. We will not hide them from their children, but tell to the coming generation the glorious deeds of the Lord, and His might, and the wonders that he has done.” (Vv. 2-4) We do not, however, pass stories down in order to exalt the people, but to tell of the merciful and extravagant ways God has provided the strength, will, and very breath for us to survive.
Being a survivor does not mean that we won’t get sick or face catastrophe. It certainly does not make us immortal. But it can make us brave and cause us to suffer without complaining. It means that we can humbly acknowledge the gracious hand of Providence and then get to work leaving a legacy. Or, for right now...making some hash for dinner.
I am including one of my favourite little dishes that my husband came up with years ago. It is cheap, easy, and very tasty. You can have it by itself or add some rice and a salad for a “proper” meal. I am not including a photo because here’s the thing: a hash can be yummy but is not photogenic. I would love love love for you to let me know what kind of hashes you have discovered during our “special home time”.
Vern’s Chickpea Hash
Ingredients:
2 cans chickpeas (we’ve been getting the bags of dried beans when they are available, soaking, cooking, and storing them in the fridge for several meals)
3 rashers of bacon, roughly chopped (or more if you prefer)
1 whole onion, diced
2 fresh peppers (whatever colour you prefer)
1 tsp cumin
½ tsp coriander
¼ tsp cayenne
Salt to taste
Begin by frying the bacon in a large frying pan. If you are one of those sad people who don’t eat bacon then you can start with olive oil. If you are a bacon lover, then please watch this video before you do anything else: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXhJPey3i_A
Once the bacon is almost crispy, add the onion and sauté until translucent. Add a bit of water if the bacon or onion starts to stick. Mix in the spices and render down with onion and a bit more water. (Feel free to be creative with the spices. We have also added smoked paprika) Add the peppers and cook for a minute or two. Add the chickpeas and salt. Add a bit more water if it looks dry. Saute for a few more minutes. Done.