What I Learned from Laura Ellard Sievers
Laura Gladys Ellard Sievers grew up on a stifling, hand-pricking, East Texas cotton farm with ten siblings and a whisper-voiced but resilient mother, and without a father or money. She married a mostly bald Yankee, moved a thousand miles from home, had three kids and went from being a Southern Baptist to a beer-drinking, loosey-goosey Lutheran which goes to show you that, whatever the future your child self sees for you, life might pave a different road. You’d better pack an extra pair of underpants.
Gram opened my eyes to the rewards of a road trip: unfamiliar territory, endless music on the car radio and frequent (often freakish) snacks. She was also the first adult who listened to my ideas as though they were relevant and she expected the same consideration. For reasons that might seem puzzling, she trusted her dog to teach me to walk. It worked, I walk just fine. Plus, I like dogs more than people, so that’s a bonus.
I never asked Gram how long she’d attended school. She valued knowledge, gave us kids a dime for each report card ‘A’ and once drawled, “You’ve got a shot at learning something every day.” Don’t blow it went unspoken but her meaning was clear.
Alongside advice about learning Gram also taught me other essential life skills. How to light a smoke with a Zippo and snap it shut like an infantryman. You’ll sell more Tupperware if you serve beer. Look forward more often than you look back (this after I ran into the neighbor’s fence on my bicycle, but it makes equal sense in life.) Listen when someone speaks but pay close attention to what their actions tell you. Having babies is optional. “Sometimes shit is easy and sometimes shit is difficult,” but live your life and try to have a good time along the way. And maybe most importantly, when you’re traveling, never pass up an opportunity to snack or use a toilet.
If she were still around, Gram would think herself an unlikely role model, but hey, it’s my life, my rules. I don’t smoke and never host Tupperware parties, but most of what I’ve learned from my grandmother still works for me. I think of her often and wish I’d asked her more questions about her family down in Texas and how that conversation went–the one about marrying my grandfather and moving to Minnesota. I wish I had thanked her for giving me a southern heart to complement my Yankee mind. I kick myself for not writing down her recipe for Lemon Meringue pie. I wish I’d skipped a week of high school, bought a Buck Owens tape and taken Gram on one last road trip, but she would have taken kindly to Brian riding shotgun with me now. I wish I could let her know that yeah, I blow it sometimes but I’m learning.
