Way Out West
The Eagle Plucked His Eye — But the Wheels Kept Turning
When I was a little girl and asked Grandma Bright, my dad’s mother, where the Bright’s came from, she said one word: “Kansas.”
I was hoping for a thrilling immigrant experience, like my mother’s— but no, it was the Bright story, an undramatic yawn.
I appreciate my grandmother Ethel now. I’d give anything to sit next to her at the sewing machine or eat one of her egg salad sandwiches. But as a child, although I didn’t see her very often, I thought she and my grandfather Ollie’s life was dull. My dad, Bill, had me for school vacation visits a couple times a year and we would always visit Oxnard to see his folks. Oxnard at the time, was like the Wichita of California.
We had cottage cheese and peaches for lunch. Grandma wouldn’t eat spaghetti because it was a “foreign” food. She made enormous quilts and braided rugs from scraps, all day, every day, plus dozens of aprons and pot holders perfectly stitched with rick-rack. No store-bought clothes, ever. She …