A Long Line of Tough ol Chicks

I guess I get it honestly. From my mom, to my grandmothers and great grandmothers, each of the women who shaped me has been tough in their own way. 

On my mom’s side, my great grandmother George came out west on her own as a Harvey Girl. These were girls between 18-30 and of good moral character who were hired as waitresses along the Santa Fe Railroad line. She ended up meeting and marrying a Santa Fe engineer and they settled in Bakersfield, CA. She was a marvelous cook, and a warm, loving presence. Her husband died when she was just 48 and while living next door to my grandparents, she took in laundry and sewing and kept a large garden to meet her own needs. She lived on her own around the corner from her son’s drug store until her passing at 89. In her own quiet, elegant way, Minneola George was a tough lady. 

My great grandmother Dewar had to start being tough very early in life. Her parents were Basque immigrants who settled in California’s Central Valley. Her mother died shortly after delivering her and she became the first child adopted into Kern County, California when her birth father gave her up while keeping her older brothers to help him work the family farm near Lodi. The adoption agency noted that she wasn’t a pretty child, but seemed very loving and helpful. Grandma Dewar grew up as a beloved only child. She married and had four children. She helped her husband establish his now iconic local candy and ice cream business   in 1909 and then helped him run it while also managing four children and a household. I can remember her dedication to the store even after Great grandpa died and my granddad took over. I’d see her sorting change and hand wrapping candy that wouldn’t go through the wrapping machine when she was in her late eighties. By then she lived in a small apartment across the street from the store and walked over each morning to put in a full day’s work. 

Kris’ mom Barbara Cook, after whacking a giant ginger Packrat at her cabin in Wyoming. Firepower provided by Kris.

Moving on to my paternal great grandmothers, my grandma Cook immigrated alone from Frank, Russia in 1901. She braved storms at sea and attempted human trafficking in New York before finally reaching Culbertson, Nebraska (speaking only Volga German) where a marriage had been arranged for her. She indeed married my great grandfather four months after arriving and they went on to have eight children and operate a family farm without indoor plumbing, phone or electricity. She saved cream, egg and feather down money and was able to send each of her daughters to Bible college and give each of her boys $500 to start their grownup lives. No small feat in depression era rural Nebraska. She and my great granddad sold the farm in 1940 and moved west with their sons at the start of WWII. In the sleepy Los Angeles suburb of Inglewood, they raised rabbits and watched over grandchildren while their sons and daughters in law enlisted or worked in war factories. After her husband of 59 years passed away, she lived with a couple of her children and I felt blessed that she landed at my Nana and Papa’s home while I was 6-13. She taught me to cook, bake and crochet,  and she taught me about quiet strength and faith. I couldn’t wait for school to be over so I could run to my grand folks house and spend all my free time with the three of them. I really consider my time with her as well as that with my Nana and Papa the most formative of my young life. She passed away at 93, just a few months after my 13th birthday. Her thick German accent, strong but gentle hands and blue gray eyes will stay with me always. 

My grandma Taylor is perhaps the great grandparent that I knew best as an older adolescent and young adult. She lived with my grandparents during my high school and college years. She was, to say the least, a handful. She was a native southwest Nebraska girl who didn’t know until she was an adult that her well traveled father, mostly traveled because he was a bigamist and had a second family in Omaha. Ola Agnes married a handsome young man who had literally come up from nothing, having been orphaned and then shipped between family members in Kansas, eastern Colorado and southern Nebraska as unpaid farm labor. He had little education but a resolute determination to succeed. Together they had five children, both partners worked hard, and by the early 1950’s once all their children had grown and married, they were finally able to buy their first home, a modest house in Culbertson, Nebraska. Albeit finally living in their own paid for home, Ola wasn’t satisfied and as her husband had to retire from his job with the State road department due to heart problems, she asked him to leave and find better employment before returning. He came west and settled with my grandparents. My dad and his younger brother had the absolute pleasure of living with their grandfather during their high school years. Ola seemed content, (even while complaining) about living without her husband. They briefly reunited before his death in 1963. She continued living on her own and doing alterations at the local JC Penney store in McCook until moving out to my grandparents place in 1975. I still visited my Nana and Papa everyday after great grandma moved in, but it could be trying. I think it’s fair to say that she never suffered in silence. 

Moving on to my Paternal Grandmother “Nana”. It’s safe to say that no one person had a bigger influence on me growing up. We lived only a little more than a mile apart so I saw her everyday. We cooked, baked, sewed and crocheted together. We went to church and to flea markets together, and when she felt lost after my granddad died, she came to live with us at the ranch. She grew up in rural southwest Nebraska, the only girl among four brothers. She was all lady, but also the most practical and hardworking woman I’ve ever known. She knew how to make magic out of nothing, whether that meant our Saturday night family dinner table or special dresses for my sister and I, refashioned from old fabrics or her own clothes. We had very little growing up, but I for one, felt like the luckiest girl in the world when I was with Nana. 

My grandma Dewar was born to better circumstances than the rest of the ladies I’ve written about. Still, she was a hard worker her entire life. I spent my early summers with her in Bakersfield and at Bass Lake. We had a marvelous time, but, I also learned a lot about gardening, painting and general maintenance. I remember that Grandma always had perfect nails and hair. She religiously wore gloves while gardening or working, and a kerchief over her wavy silver hair. I often laugh thinking what she’d think of my rough ol hands, dirty face and messy hair at the end of most days. Still, in her well lived 88 years, I know that she was always eager to hear what I was doing on the ranch. 

That brings me to my mom. A truly remarkable little lady. Mom is great at almost everything. She’s 84 and hasn’t shown any signs of slowing down. Her favorite pastimes are spending time at her log cabin in the wilds of Wyoming, garage sales, decorating and spending time with her white German Shepherd, Jasper. When it became clear that I would lose Fred, she quietly told my sister to find her a home in Northern Nevada because she thought I’d need her. At 78, she uprooted her whole life in Southern California and moved to Carson City. She has indeed been an incredible support for me and I’m beyond proud of the beautiful home and life she’s crafted for herself. I love visiting here a couple times each month and Patrice revels in having her grandma so close. 

So that is the run down on the women who shaped me. Each, all their own, but truly tough, determined and resilient. And so to each of them and to my dear mother in law Marie and daughter Patrice, I offer my love and sincere thanks for always having the attitude of “don’t quit, get up and rub some dirt on it”.

Kris Stewart is a rancher in Paradise Valley, Nevada.