After my grandfather’s sudden passing in 1965, his wife, my grandmother—whom we affectionately call Grandpa — sold their home. It took them nearly a lifetime to build the house on the property next to Granddaddy’s lumber mill. Between the house and the mill was a fishing pond where Grandpa would take her pole and worms to fish after the chores were done.
Behind the pond was a smokehouse where Grandaddy cured hams. When the hams were ready, it felt like heaven’s doors opened. Even the Lord seemed to enjoy the slices of country ham served between Grandpa’s buttered biscuits each morning. While I didn’t see Him, many visitors exclaimed, “Oh Lord, these are good!” after tasting such a delicious treat for the first time. So, He must have been there.
Eventually, the mill, the pond, and the smokehouse disappeared, but the house remained. After all these years, I recall the aroma, the laughter, and the wonderful woman in the kitchen each time I pass by.
Grandpa moved into a small house she rented a few miles away in Crossville, Tennessee. It wasn’t far from her Baptist church, and the backyard was big enough for her garden. Her kitchen was about as wide as two stoves but sufficient to house a tiny table for two pushed against the wall opposite the sink. “Shoot, this is all I need!” she declared when we questioned the size of her ‘new’ old place.
“I achieved my dream, and I’m thankful for the time I spent living it,” she remarked after leaving her home, her fishing hole, and her beloved husband, who had departed too soon. I always believed that if Grandpa couldn’t find a silver lining in life’s challenges, she would struggle to carry on.
Mom and I would often drive up from Georgia to visit Grandpa. One summer afternoon after arriving, she had a piece of pie and sweet tea waiting for us. She had placed each piece on her old Pyrex milk glass plates trimmed in gray.
In the early 1970s, many people believed carpeting was a good choice for kitchen floors. Tired of mopping and standing on hard surfaces, women thought it was the perfect solution for their weary feet.
Grandpa was no exception. She chose a patterned rubber-backed carpet in shades of blue, red, and green to install in her tiny kitchen. As I sat in a chair, staring at the carpet, I couldn’t help but wonder how much flour was hidden beneath it.
“Elizabeth, have you seen that advertising on TV about those new Corning Corelle dishes?”
“Mom, are you talking about the dishes that don’t break?”
“Sure am! Well, that’s false advertising!” Grandpa said as indignantly as she knew how. She continued, “I’ve had these Corning Pyrex dishes since near about 1940 and ain’t broken a single one! These don’t shatter, so they are just trying to rebrand what they already have! Makes me mad!”
“Mom, they are not the same. Your dishes will break. You have just been lucky.”
“Well, let me just show you, and it will prove I’m right!” Grandpa insisted as she pulled a dinner plate from above the stove. Before we could stop her, she held the plate over her head and slammed it into the flour-covered, rubber-backed mess on the floor.
When it shattered into countless pieces, the look on her face as she exclaimed, “Well, shoot, I guess I was wrong about that!” was priceless, just like those old Pyrex plates are today.
All Mom could say before bursting into laughter was, “Talk about stubborn!”
We laughed and ate pie until we cried.
Grandpa’s experience with the Corning Pyrex dishes taught us a valuable lesson about humility. Sometimes, when we try to convince others that we are right and they are wrong, we break things. When we are determined to prove someone is mistaken, we may find the error was ours.
In today’s world, where distrust and misinformation are prevalent, we often think we know the facts, but in reality, we may not have the whole picture. We tend to accept what aligns with our preferences. Are we more willing to believe a falsehood than to accept the truth?
Yes, the women in my family can be pretty stubborn, but like Grandpa, they possess the strength to say, “I’m sorry, I was wrong.” These five words truly define character and courage. They bring positivity, forgiveness, and kindness into our lives.
When Grandpa moved for the final time, the dishes remained with her. They had survived 50 years, serving blessings, life lessons, and gratitude to the Lord every morning.
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Lynn Walker Gendusa is a Tennessee-raised, Georgia-residing author and columnist. Her latest book is “Southern Comfort: Stories of Family, Friendship, Fiery Trials, and Faith.” She can be reached at www.lynngendusa.com. For more of her inspirational stories, click here.
