Freida was always ready to go along with the family.
When some visiting grandchildren clamored for a visit to a quaint museum in a nearby town, Frieda agreed to go. It was better than trying to take on the Zipper at the amusement park.
Arriving at the museum with a veneer of shake shingles and newly-painted clapboard, the group tumbled into the main room.
A costumed host greeted the family, answering questions as a turn-of-the-century resident would have done.
The living room boasted kerosene lamps, chairs of solid maple, and cameo paintings on the walls.
Freida followed the family into the tiny bedroom and then to the kitchen where many old utensils were grouped on the wooden table.
“Isn’t this great, Grandma?” asked Kim, one of the grandchildren.
Freida’s head pivoted as she studied the kitchen layout. “Sure,” she said. “But I don’t understand why you’re so excited. I have all this stuff in my kitchen.”
My brother and I never ran past the house that loomed behind overgrown plants on our way home from school. That’s why we were sometimes nabbed by that fearful call from the old lady who lived there: “Yoohoo, children.”
Mrs. Bishop seemed to be at least 120 to us and she’d come to her gate with her white hair and big smile.
“Come in for a minute.”
We hadn’t been raised to be rude and so we filed into her faded parlor where we’d hear stories about her cats and her flowers while being served gritty rubber ice cream or petrified chocolate.
We never knew how to excuse ourselves so we sat, knowing we were late getting home.
Finally Mrs. Bishop set us free and we rushed home.
“Mrs. Bishop —“ I said to Mom.
And she waved her hand. “I figured as much.”
That was it. No lectures or anger.
I didn’t know it then but grace from my mother flowed through us to a lonely elderly woman who only wanted to share a little of her life with her neighbors.
They may seem to loom as ancient and irrelevant, but the elderly blossom with our grace and kindness.
My late husband and I went four-wheeling into a remote area in the Snowy Range of Wyoming and came across this abandoned cabin. Matt called it his peaceful place and I wondered what stories it held. Who had built it? What dreams were forged in this valley?
The day I met my namesake out in the pigpen was the day I decided I wasn’t using people names for our livestock anymore.
Our neighbor’s daughter liked to name their pigs after friends. Seeing a hog rooting in the mud and learning that her name was Kathy – well, that was the turning point.
No more Abraham or Elinore or Danielle.
But the animals needed names. If you can’t use the neighbors’ names and you can’t use the baby book names, what can you use for ideas?
A dictionary, of course.
Which explains why we’ve had livestock carrying such names as Tripod, Rugby and Torch. We’ve had Breeze, Warrior and Colossal.
Such names as Scimitar and Saber have been attached to some of our animals over the years. We’ve used Cola and Domino and Tinsel.
Not long ago, a friend send a rabbit our way. “She’s not named,” said our friend. “Although I think I should have called her Frying Pan, just to fit in with your barn.”
I don’t know why she laughed. That name would have worked for us.
