A Woman of Profound Faith - Haiku - For my Great-Grandmother, written on her birthday

My great-grandmother
A woman of profound faith
And great compassion

I was quite fortunate as a child, for although both of my father's parents, and theirs, had died long before I was born, my mother's parents, and her maternal grandmother, were alive and well, and living in New Mexico.

We lived in Monterey Park at the time, a hilly inland suburb of Los Angeles that had once been rolling farmland, and so most summers, my mom drove us to the train station in nearby Pasadena, gave us a last hug as we boarded our beloved El Capitan, and we made the overnight journey to Gallup, where my grandparents lived.

Occasionally our grandparents would pick us up along their own travels, and drive us there, especially when I was little, which allowed us more of a chance to get to know the people and businesses along Route 66, which was quite an adventure for us as children.

My grandparents were great travelers, and intelligent about it, as they fully embodied the Scout's motto, "Be Prepared;" one of the first things they grabbed, before setting off on any trip across the desert, was a ten-pound bag of crushed ice, which they kept well insulated on the floor behind the driver's seat.

This was in addition to several gallons of bottled water.

Along their travels, they not infrequently encountered fellow travelers who had not prepared as well before entering the desert, and found their cars overheated to the point of incapacity, with few or no drinks in the car; clearly a hazardous situation in the summer, in the middle of the desert.

I remember one such occasion, when Carol and I were with them, when they came across a stranded young couple with two young children, one of which was a very young infant. The young mother was quietly frantic, trying to keep her children as cool as possible in the hot shade beside their steaming car, but it was clear that she was distraught, and had been crying.

My grandparents immediately sprang into action. After providing the young mother with a folding chair from the trunk, my grandfather took out a gallon of water, and, using heavy gloves, helped the young father get the radiator cap off, so that they could begin the arduous task of v-e-r-y slowly adding water to the still-steaming radiator.

Meanwhile, my grandmother quickly escorted my sister and I out of the car, got a shallow bowl out of the trunk, and scooped some of the crushed ice and water from the bag in the car. Then she handed us a stack of bandannas, and instructed us to dip them into the ice water, while instructing the young mom to use them to wipe her children's faces, and her own, and then to place them behind their necks, to help them cool off.

Finally, our grandmother got out a stack of cups, scooped ice into them, and poured water for the whole family.

She showed the young mom how she could use one corner of a bandanna as a makeshift nipple, dipping it into the water, and then allowing her infant to suck out the water as she squeezed. I, as a young kid, had never even heard of that before, though I'm certain that my sister, older and wiser, must certainly have already known. ;-)

Needless to say, these were clean bandannas, and possibly new, as she bought them by the dozen. My grandparents were both of the opinion that no well-stocked car should be without a decent stack of clean bandannas. You never know when you might need them in a pinch.

Within a short time, the radiator was no longer steaming, and the men topped it off. They checked and double checked to make certain that no water lines had popped off, then tried the car, which sprang to life and ran smoothly.

After a quick check that they had more than enough fuel to make the next town, my grandfather left the young man with advice on which particular gas station he should take it to, to endure that there were no further problems, and to use his name with the owner, which would ensure that they were not treated like tourists.

My grandfather also gave them a small tarp, and instructions on how to use it for shade in a pinch, just in case they broke down again.

My grandmother gave them a couple of gallons of water, just in case, along with the bowl refilled with crushed ice, and assured them that yes, indeed, the cups and bandannas were theirs to keep. She advised them that if ever they crossed the desert again, to take several gallons of water and a bag of crushed ice, along with cups and bandannas, to make sure it would be a pleasant journey.

The only thing my grandparents took back was the folding camp chair, as it was part of a matched set, which they had used for camping for many years, and which we all had many fond memories of using.

What an amazing lesson, and example, in how we should treat our fellow humans.

And, truth be told, as I was maybe seven or eight at the time, I may well be condensing more than one such encounter into the memory, as memories do tend to telescope through time. Unfortunately, no one who was there is still available to ask.

But I can say without question that, as kids, one of our favorite things about going back and forth to New Mexico via car was that bag of crushed ice on the floor.

Since we both sat in the back seat, and more rarely three of us, when our eldest sister was there as well, we all dearly loved scooping out the cups of crushed ice that we sipped as we watched the magnificent landscape roll past our windows.

Somehow, ice water never tasted so good.

But we also adored traveling by train, and we were treated wonderfully by the folks who recognized us as regular travelers, such as Mr. Christmas, an impossibly old and kind black porter, who treated us as though we were his own grandchildren. We all adored him, and we felt completely safe in his charge.

There were two Santa Fe trains at the time that traveled that route, from Los Angeles to Chicago, and back: the Super Chief, which left in the morning and arrived that same evening, which was the train you wanted if you wanted to see the grandeur of the desert and the red rocks as you passed through California and Arizona, roughly paralleling Route 66 en route to Gallup; and the El Capitan, our own train of choice, which left late in the afternoon and arrived the next morning.

For young kids with enforced bed times, this was the best, as we could sit up all night in the club car playing games, often by ourselves, but also frequently with fellow passengers.

And it was a chance to visit and converse with people from all over the country, and occasionally from other countries, which was not only a wonderful experience in itself, but I think went a long way toward making us more tolerant and open-minded toward others as we matured.

This was back in the day when traveling by train was a special treat, and was considered a truly deluxe mode of transportation, almost akin to taking a cruise.

The dining cars were noted for their excellent food and service, there was a less expensive snack bar with sandwiches and similar fare downstairs, which was happily open all night, and the train's staff really watched out for the kids who were traveling on board without adult accompaniment.

There was also a credentialed nurse aboard every train, in case of any medical emergencies, putting our parents' minds at further rest, particularly since I was frequently sick as a child. Though, looking back, I can't recall any incidents where we went to her with anything more serious than needing a Bandaid.

One of our favorite places to hang out from time to time was in the baggage car, where we would talk to any porters around at the time. They were always nice, occasionally hilarious, and it was a good way to spend some time.

We were pretty much given the run of the train, with the obvious exception of the engines, as long as we behaved ourselves, which we always did. We knew if we didn't that our parents and grandparents would be informed, which was part of it, but mostly we were simply taught from early childhood to always behave well in public, and to be respectful of others, so we were.

So what does all this have to do with my great-grandmother?

This was how we traveled back and forth from California each summer to see her, by car or by train, because seeing her was one of the primary reasons why my mother wanted us to go to New Mexico in the first place; to spend time and make memories with the woman who had cared for her during her own early childhood.

My sisters and I called her GranNatt.

My grandmother and her first husband, my mother's biological father, divorced when my mom was an infant, and so she returned home to New Mexico, with my mother in tow, and left her in the capable hands of her parents, while she went to work as a social worker.

So yes, our grandfather was my mom's stepfather, but that never mattered to anyone. He adore her and her grandparents, he was the dad who helped to raise her, he was the only grandfather we ever knew, and we all adored him.

My grandmother's parents owned and ran the general store in Mescalero, on the Mescalero Apache reservation, having recently moved their business from the nearby small town of Bent, just down the highway, in 1928.

The store was quite a large adobe building, built in the 1870s or 1880s, complete with massive vigas supporting the roof, which was naturally cool in the summer and warm in the winter, as all properly built adobe structures are.

The large store and a small post office were downstairs, which were run by my great-grandfather and great-grandmother respectively, and the ample living quarters were upstairs.

We all fell in love with the place as kids. Both the store and the living quarters had gorgeous wide-planked wood floors, huge fireplaces in the living room and master bedroom, and their extensive collection of Native American pottery, rugs, baskets and other artifacts displayed throughout.

Which made us feel quite at home, as my mother had her own lovely collection, which were displayed in our childhood home, and ultimately given little by little to my sisters and me.

There was also a lovely screened porch leading out to the back yard, which was heaven during the cool nights, a small creek that ran along the bottom of the hill, and the hill itself, which rose steeply out of their yard, and was covered in Ponderosa and big cone pines, with a steep horse trail leading up to a small cemetery and beyond.

We used to ride our cousins horses there, as kids, which was a big part of the magic of visiting there each summer.

By the time we came along, the store and post office were run respectively by my grandmother's younger brother and his wife, and my great-grandmother had "retired" to a small home in nearby Tularosa, where she kept a large and productive garden, numerous fruit trees, and a flock of bantam chickens; hence the photo of my own chickens at the top of this post.

It was my great-grandmother, and her flock, that made me want a flock of my own.

I have "retired" in quotation marks because, although my great-grandmother did retire from being the Mescalero postmistress, she never stopped working, in one way or another, and constantly volunteered with her church.

When I was maybe nine or ten years old, she began caring for an "older" woman from church who was infirm, who was actually many years younger than she was. But, because she was still spry and capable, she helped the woman with the daily tasks she had trouble doing herself, and took pleasure in doing so.

There is much more that I could write about her, as she led a fascinating life: at six months of age, which would have been the spring of 1883, her family traveled to California by covered wagon, where her mother had been born.

She then lived to see men walk on the moon, marveling along with the rest of us, and humbled by the prospect.

She was very devoutly religious, and yet fairly open-minded, long subscribing to both the Christian Science Monitor (she belonged to the Church of Christ) and National Geographic.

Ultimately, she died at eighty-eight years of age, when I was twelve years old, and was active to the last, though she had finally agreed to move to Gallup to live with my grandparents a year or so earlier.

According to my grandmother, one morning after breakfast, GranNatt washed the morning dishes, went outside to play with the dog, and then came inside after a short while, exclaiming, "John Galt, you're just too rough!"

She then sat at the dining table, looked at my grandmother, said "I don't feel well," and fell to the floor. She apparently died almost instantly. Now that's the way to go.

So I will close with one further haiku, in her honor:

Abbie Ann Ealy
Clayton McNatt; a woman
of fierce devotion

Happy Birthday, GranNatt.

Thank you for being our family's matriarch. Thank you for everything.

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