My family has a cute little cottage, neatly tucked in between the cedars on the shore of Lake Huron. I grew up spending most of my summers making memories there. Now it is a place of refuge for many in my family - me included. I am the fourth generation of Rieck to lavish many hours sitting in a rocking chair buried in a book on the porch. The sounds of the water lapping against the beach is such a comforting sound. I look around and see imprints of the past participants in the history of the cottage.
The legacy of my family is all around me. But then I realize that all of the visual legacies leftare from the men in the family. My great-grandfathers tiny 4 horsepower motor - and his ancient Sears aluminum boat. The closet full of the cheesy plaid 80's sweaters and walking sticks that were hand carved by my grandfather.. Somewhere in there is one with my initials on it; it is so short; I was so young. The immaculate tiling done behind the beloved wood stove done by our most recently departed uncle. Then there is the piece-de-resistance (at least in my books) the bench down on the beach. Actually I lie, its not the bench… it’s the rock pad that the bench rests on. My father and I hauled each and every rock from all over the beach, mixed the concrete and then assembled pad. As I was making this mental list I realized that there was something missing. Women. The men in my family's past lived a very visible life - hunting, fishing and caring for the environment around them.
Which made me wonder. What kind of legacy have the women left? Unlike the men there are no names written on items around the cottage. What effect have they made on their future generations? So I stop and think about all the memories that I have of the women in my family. They all start in the kitchen. No, this is not because this is where the men in my family believed that women should be. It is because that is where they loved to be and how they loved others. I have many memories of times that G-ma found out any "___<insert your choice of emotion or event here>___". She immediately whips a few of the 50 of more pie shells (no that isn't an exaggeration) out of the freezer and filled it full of a filling of whatever was in season. No one makes an apple pie like Grandma. Everything was made from scratch with love as the not-so-secret ingredient. All were welcome at the table, the food was good and whoever was cooking made sure that even the EXTREMELY picky eaters left the table full with a doggy bag for the next meal. (I have no idea who that extremely picky eater is.)
So as I look through the cupboard, it is well stocked with the tools of a Rieck woman's love. Enough pots and pans to cook what ever she needs to andthe pantry was full with whatever she had canned. She taught me that to care was to ensure that our friends had food and a seat at the table. I don’t feel like I have welcomed a person or shown my respect for them until I have put something edible in their hands. In G-ma's basement is enough baking implements that she collected at garage sales to ensure that every grandchild would be able to welcome our guests properly. This is something I am thankful for. I am thankful to my grandmothers, and aunts for setting such a great example for me and encouraging me to participate in the living legacy of being a Rieck woman.