Forts in the woods. Fake restaurants where my uncles ordered fake food off our handmade menus. Mornings spent snapping green beans with my grandma under the big shade tree while drinking fizzy Pepsi out of a can. Slip and slide down the hill with bruises to prove it. Pumpkin carving contests using watermelons during my aunt's annual fall festival. Endless games of Red Rover and Simon Says.
My five siblings and I grew up in Winamac, Indiana, surrounded by family. My extended family is huge, and nearly every relative lived within a five mile radius of each other when we were kids.
I can say without doubt that every one of my aunts and uncles on both sides loved (and still love) their nieces and nephews as their own children. All 25+ of us.
We cousins did everything together. Our simple days were spent outside all day, or at one of our grandma's houses.
We hosted yard sales, helped harvest and sell sweet corn, had enough kids for our own full teams when we'd play softball in the barnyard, and took walks with my grandma through her land that bordered a state park.
At my other grandparents' house, we went to Swirly Top for ice cream and got dressed up in our Sunday best to eat at Gropp's Restaurant, rode our bike with another aunt at the state park, got fair money each summer, watched Grandpa work the fields, learned what it meant to be involved in the community, played basketball in the hay loft, and walked daily from our house to theirs on the path Grandpa made us through the field.
We weren't rich. Very far from it. But none of us knew it because our family made sure what we lacked in money was replaced with experiences, experiences that cost very little but were formed with the people who loved us most.
Being outside opened my world. I would walk with my grandmothers through their yards. My Grandma Rausch, a widow as long as I knew her, would show me her roses and have me smell each one, tell me who gifted her each bush, and snip their blooms for her kitchen windowsill. When I got married and got a house, we walked her yard together so she could dig up plant starts for my new yard. She taught me that beauty is everywhere--that it is there just waiting to be discovered.
My Grandma Krohn taught me that digging potatoes is like digging for buried treasure. She showed me how to make a snapdragon "talk," and would cut vases of her gladiolus for my mom's counter. She taught me that while money might make things easier, real happiness is already right there in front of you, waiting to be found and acknowledged.
My mom was busy--a full time job and raising six kids consumed her time. My dad worked a full-time job and farmed, raising everything from cattle to pigs to sheep during my childhood.
My mom taught me to pull grass out of the iris beds, how peonies make an incredible bouquet all on their own, and how flowers bring so much happiness.
She taught me just by taking the time to stop all her work and going outside to look at the flowers growing in our yard. She'd walk around the yard in the evenings, sometimes with me. She'd point out what was blooming. As a child, I knew more flower names than most adults know now. In the spring, we seemed to look at the plants being sold every time we went to a store. I learned to water the flowers and developed this strong love for watering plants and nurturing things that grow.
My mom taught me to stop. To look. To find the beauty.
It's ingrained in me. Even today, as I type this while treating myself to a rare pedicure, I notice the sparkle in my nail tech's smile. I notice the way the light reflects off the white textured wall. I notice the wall all of beautiful colors of nail polish--all of them so pretty that I let a young girl who was sitting nearby choose my color.
On my way here, I noticed the white puffy clouds and the way they moved in the blue sky. I noticed all the green, proof that there's life again outside.
This morning I watched our two resident mourning doves resting on our backyard patio. I saw two painted lady butterflies fluttering around, and noticed the bees visiting the freshly bloomed alliums. I heard the fresh leaves rustling in the gentle breeze.
It's there. The beauty and goodness are always there. I promise you. If I learned nothing else from my mother and grandmothers, it's that beauty is in everything. It might be covered with a dark, fierce storm, or deep, wailing sadness, but it's there.
It might not appear immediately.
It might cause you anguish and physical pain that you're certain will kill you.
But dig in with your heels, hold on tightly and wait. Peel back the layers. Wait. Look. Wait. And look some more.
You will find it. You, like me, will learn to look for the beauty.
It's the most extraordinary gift I've ever received.
Happy Mother's Day to all of the mothers--especially those who came before us. They helped create what we know now. Their endurance, love, and knowledge inspire us and continue to teach us to be our best.
For them, I am grateful.
Weren't we cute? Do my parents look exhausted? I'm the one in the back with the big red bow. I loved that dress. Those kids sitting around me are now some of my best friends.
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