No Room at the Ranch

It was a beautiful, sunny Fourth of July holiday in Denver and I was about six or seven years old. My parents had decided that we should take my widowed grandmother out for a picnic in the mountains west of town.

Grandma Gindling had prepared a huge pasty for each of us and the aroma from her ancient picnic basket filled the car as we drove into the mountains. My parents had several favorite picnic spots that we often visited during the long Colorado summers. But this year, each of "our" spots was already occupied by happy picnickers.

My parents pulled off the road, debating where to go next, when my grandmother piped up from the back seat. "Why don't we just go up to the ranch?" she asked.

The "ranch" was her family's homestead in the mountains a few miles from Nederland. She had inherited when her parents died, but had made her home in Denver. The house had burned down long before I was born, and Grandma seldom wanted to go there. The memories of her life there were happier if she was not confronted by the wreckage of her old home. But this day she seemed willing to visit the old place again.

My parents agreed, and about an hour later we drove up the old dirt road leading to the house. The smell of the pasties, along with the fresh mountain air, had made us all very hungry, and my brothers and I were eager to dive into our lunch.

The old gate stood open as we approached the house, and my father stopped and closed it after he had driven through. He wondered aloud as he drove on about who might have left the gate open, and as we arrived at the ruins of the old house, we quickly realized that we were not the only ones there. Families were scattered all over the yard in various stages of setting up their own picnics. And someone was busily poking around the ruins of the house.

My parents and my grandmother said nothing as they got out of the car and begin looking for an open spot for our own picnic. Just about that time, a woman detached herself from a nearby group and stomped up to my parents. Hands on hips, she declared, "There's no room here. You're just going to have to leave."

My grandmother's eyes, normally a beautiful soft blue, suddenly turned to an astonishing electric blue. We rarely saw them that color, and we knew it meant she had become very, very angry. My brothers and I took a step back, waiting for the explosion as she turned to look at the woman.

Then, to our surprise, in a very calm voice, Grandma said, "I own this place and we're not leaving."

Stunned, the woman opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She backed away, suddenly looking very nervous, and Grandma turned to help my mother unpack our picnic basket and blankets. In the meantime, my father went to warn the man poking about in the ruined house to be careful of the root cellar, which was covered by partially burned and rotted wood, and might have caved in on him.

Before we had finished laying out our own picnic, my father returned and asked, "Where'd everybody go?"

I looked around, and sure enough, every single group of picnickers had packed up and gone. We enjoyed our lunch, and the rest of our afternoon, in complete peace.

I learned something from my grandmother that day. Her quiet answer undoubtedly stopped what might have become a shouting match. And she said only what she needed to say. Over the many years of my life since that unforgettable day, I have tried to follow her example in very tense situations. More often than not, I have been able to get my point across simply and calmly. Her self-control at that moment has given me a lasting example to try to live up to, and sometimes I even think she might be proud of me when I actually succeed.