“Well, It Is Granny’s Stove”
While attending graduate school in Louisville, Kentucky I received a phone call from my mother. We talked about several things, basically catching up on the family news. Finally, just before ending the call she told me my father had something he wanted to tell me about. Dad came on the phone. He said, “Larry. You’ll never guess what I got yesterday.” Before I could even try he blurted out, “I got Momma’s cook-stove. Her wood cook-stove. I hauled it to the house on my old green (Ford) truck. Blount (Dad’s neighbor and a good friend) said he would come to the house and help me. We’re going to put it in the basement. I’ve already knocked a hole in to flue and fixed it so that I can put in a stove-pipe.” Very few times in my life could I recall my father being that excited about anything, besides the Lord (of course).
It was several weeks before I came back home for a brief visit. My curiosity led me down the steps into the basement. I wanted to see the stove for myself. My Dad was following close behind me. When we reached the basement floor, Dad quickly pointed out the stove and began telling me the story of how he had acquired it, all of the steps involved in removing it from the old house where Granny used to live, about loading it on the truck, hauling it across the mountain, adapting the flue to accommodate the insertion of the stove pipe, getting the stove from the truck to the basement, and building a fire in order to be certain everything was in good working order. He was so excited. I was so skeptical. Granted, it was a wood cook-stove. It appeared to be similar to the cook-stove I remembered my Granny having when I was a youngster and would spend time at her house. But, it seemed smaller to me than the one I remembered. I kept my skepticism to myself. I listened to my Dad’s monologue. However, in the back of my mind, I had my doubts.
After the weekend visit, I returned to Louisville. The semester passed rather quickly. Soon it was time to gather with my family at my parent’s home for Christmas. The Christmas meal was going to be shared in the basement. The ham and a cake of cornbread was being baked in the oven of Granny’s wood cook-stove. On the surface of the stove were several pots and pans with green beans and potatoes being prepared. Again, I listened to Dad’s story of the pilgrimage of the cook-stove and witnessed his obvious delight in telling about it. Personally, I thought he was delusional. (I withheld my critique from anyone else.) The stove was generating sufficient warm to make the basement nice and cozy for everyone.
My sister and her family arrived at the appointed time. She had two children. Her son was about four and the little girl was about two years old. Soon after their arrival, I began to play ball with my nephew. Our game consisted mainly of tossing and/or rolling the ball back and forth to each other. Things were going along pretty well until I tossed the ball to him and he missed it. At that point the ball rolled under the wood cook-stove. He started to go after it but I quickly intervened, telling him that I would get it. In order to retrieve it from under the cook-stove I had to get down on my knees and use a piece of kindling wood to punch the ball out of its resting place. I got the ball in my hands, remaining on my knees, and prepared to stand up. When I straightened up and looked at the cook-stove I said, “Well, it is Granny’s stove.” It was exactly as I remembered it to be. It was the same height as it was when I was a small lad. The warming shelf was located in the same place it had been when I used to strain to reach those peanut butter cookies that my Granny used to keep there. It still smelled of burning wood, baking meat, cornbread, and stewing vegetables; just like it had back when. From my vantage point I had to say again, “Well, it is Granny’s stove.”
When I stood up and turned around my Dad had this real puzzled look on his face. He did not understand why I had said what I had said. He just shrugged his shoulders and said, “I told you it was.”
Often, through the years, I have thought back to that day in the basement, next to the stove. As I have reflected on that event I have been reminded that sometimes it is helpful to see things from a different perspective in order to see them as they really are. The wood cook-stove had not changed. It was the same as it had always been. It was me that had changed. In order for me to say, “Well. It is Granny’s stove” my perspective had to change. My viewpoint had to be altered. My angle needed to be adjusted. I had to let go of my skepticism and be willing to embrace realism.
It is so easy to get locked in on one perspective. Sometimes the perspective we become shackled to is wrong. Maybe, instead of being cynical and pessimistic we need to be willing to become positive and optimistic. Rather than tying ourselves to looking for and expecting the worse we need to loosened those bounds and look for and prepare for the best.
Oh well. I am glad I could say, “Well, it is Granny’s stove’.