Mary Catherine Moyer was my paternal grandmother, and she lived to be over 100 years old. I called her Grandma Moyer. Although she was not the cuddly kind of grandma, she gave me one of the best gifts I received during my young years. She taught me how to love Nature.
Grandma and Grandpa Bob Moyer lived in a small house tucked away in the woods of Butler, Pennsylvania. The drive from my family home to theirs took two hours, and I think we visited about once a month. This was a second marriage for both of my grandparents, and my grandpa was my father's step-dad. I sensed there were some hard feelings between my mother and my grandmother, but they never seemed to interfere with our visits. That mystery died along with those who held those grudges, so maybe it is better left unsaid. Although it sure hasn't satisfied my curiosity.
As I remember their home, it was a work in progress that had halted at some point. They lived in the basement while the upstairs sat vacant, waiting to be remodeled. What that meant for us was that we entered the home and immediately skipped down a long set of steps that led right into their living room. I guess they knew about the "open concept" long before it was a thing. The kitchen counter, sink, stove, and refrigerator all ran along one wall. I recall a dark pantry right in that area. The dining and living areas were all right there, too. I remember one bedroom, but maybe there were two. And a tiny bathroom.
When I think of being there, an overpowering smell of well water permeates my memory. I also remember the distinct cat-smell of Tinkerbell, who was pure white with pink eyes and wanted nothing to do with me no matter how hard I tried.
My Grandpa Bob did most of the cooking. He was a short, gnarly man with greasy black and gray hair on a balding head, a cigarette habitually stuck between his lips and an apron around his neck and tied in the back. I knew the smell of booze from an early age and throughout my life have associated that musty odor with the comforts of spending time with him. While I never felt a particularly close relationship with my Grandpa Bob, I loved being there with both of them, enjoying their rustic lifestyle.
Heartfelt factoid:
The day my Grandpa Bob died
was the same day I learned I was pregnant with Thirdborn ❤️
Circle of Life
My Grandpa Bob with my parents.
The one thing my Grandma Moyer made that I couldn't get enough of were taco shells. She had the patience of a saint as she stood over that cast-iron skillet with oil sputtering everywhere as she held the taco shell bent into shape while it was fried. They were perfect, and I think I loved tacos because of what she did with those shells.
I had three California cousins who visited our grandparents every summer. The older two and I hung out while the third cousin played with my younger brother and sister. I remember Kim as beautiful and so girly. Being the tomboy, I had more fun exploring the woods with my boy cousin, Kip. Sometimes Grandma would give all of us tinfoil pie plates so we could pan for gold in the stream that ran behind the house. All these years later, I still have a little movie that plays through my memory. I see six little barefoot kids, pants cuffs turned up a couple times, precariously balancing on helmet-sized rocks in the ice-cold stream, dipping our pie plates into the water and then shaking them, looking for the gold to appear.
On the left: my brother, Scott; cousins Wendy, Kim, Kip; me with the dog; and my sister, Pam.
My grandma loved rock gardens. After driving through woods lined with tall trees, on the pathway to their house, I learned to always glance to the left at the vast areas dotted with rocks with blooming flowers, moss, and ferns everywhere. After saying our hellos, my grandma would walk me out to her rock gardens and show me everything she had going on. I don't think I ever learned the names of any of it, so I doubt she knew them either, but boy did she have an eye for design.
Around 1963
Maybe the best part of all was the summerhouse. Really, I think it was merely a wooden structure with one room and a "front porch." I remember a few times my grandmother allowed me to spend the night out in the summerhouse. I'll bet those were nights she didn't get much sleep, but I never thought of that then. Those experiences that left me feeling grownup, independent, and countrified were one of the highlights of each summer.
I felt like I was camping when I spent time out there. I'd sit in a chair on the front porch and just survey the woods, mesmerized by all my eyes and ears could take in. It seemed that the world faded away when I was in the summerhouse, and I was suddenly in precisely the right place at the right time. That feeling is as close to Peace as I think I've ever gotten. For years as a grownup, when I camped, I had that same feeling. Today, being outside, whether at the beach or hiking deep in a preserve, or at the #StrineBackYard, that same Peacefulness gently enfolds me into its safe cocoon, allowing me a short reprieve from real life.
I'm glad for the opportunity here to write down some of the Grandma & Grandpa Moyer memories. I owe them much. They were the family who taught me about Nature, and I am grateful to them for that gift. Someday, I hope I can continue that tradition with my own grandchildren.
Thank you, Mary Catherine Moyer
My Grandma ❤️
