I spent third grade in a public school in southern California (how much is two dimes and a nickel?) in '72-73. We stayed at my Mom's parents', a half mile or so down the track from the ranch house. My parents were on "home leave" visiting a lot of churches to build the relationships that kept them in mission in Nepal. My sister was in her first year of college, and my brother was in high school in town in 11th grade. Even as a child, I sensed my mom worrying about him getting drafted. But the war in Vietnam ended before he came of age.
When I got off the school bus, I went and hung out with Grandma. She always had cool snacks for me (ice cream sandwiches), and we watched shows together: Jeannie, The Brady Bunch, and if we were daring, Love Boat. She also taught me to knit and sew (mostly doll clothes), and told me to go check out the polly-wogs in the pond. I even got to feed an orphaned calf.
I guess my maternal grandparents were pretty involved in our lives before we went to the mission field, but I couldn't remember that, so this year gave me a memory, a "home" in the States. From what I can discern as an adult, my grandparents were peeved that my dad would up and take their daughter and grandchildren across the world, so this was a workable attempt to lessen that pain. Later, I would call 246 W. 14th St. in Chico, CA "home", but Tar Springs Ranch outside Arroyo Grande was my first.
Of course, for me, the house on poo corner in Lamachaur, Pokhara, Nepal was really home. That's a story for another day!
When I got off the school bus, I went and hung out with Grandma. She always had cool snacks for me (ice cream sandwiches), and we watched shows together: Jeannie, The Brady Bunch, and if we were daring, Love Boat. She also taught me to knit and sew (mostly doll clothes), and told me to go check out the polly-wogs in the pond. I even got to feed an orphaned calf.
I guess my maternal grandparents were pretty involved in our lives before we went to the mission field, but I couldn't remember that, so this year gave me a memory, a "home" in the States. From what I can discern as an adult, my grandparents were peeved that my dad would up and take their daughter and grandchildren across the world, so this was a workable attempt to lessen that pain. Later, I would call 246 W. 14th St. in Chico, CA "home", but Tar Springs Ranch outside Arroyo Grande was my first.
Of course, for me, the house on poo corner in Lamachaur, Pokhara, Nepal was really home. That's a story for another day!
