We stand on the shoulders of giants.
Ora Hopkins was born in Yell County, Arkansas, in November 1902, to Jim and Nancy Miller Hopkins, the 10th of 11 children. She lost her dad before she turned 8. She was orphaned at 14, having lost her mother and two older brothers to the Spanish flu epidemic. Just before her 19th birthday, she married Odes Brunson.
Shortly thereafter, Odes and Ora, and five of Odes’s brothers, moved to river-bottom land along the Verdigris River in northeast Oklahoma, to farm. Over the next 25 years, Ora gave birth to ten children, nine of whom made it to adulthood, and one of whom was my dad. She and Odes spent most of those years as sharecroppers and migrant workers, spending time in Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and California.
As a young wife and mom, she often joined her husband in the fields. Any of the children strong enough to drag a cotton sack also joined them. The cotton they picked allowed them to buy basic necessities and keep a roof over their heads.
By the time I was old enough to be aware of her, my grandmother had buried parents, siblings, and children. She had borne 10 children and helped care for a growing brood of grandchildren. She had lived in a two-room house with dirt floors and, many times, packed up what little they had and moved across the country in search of work. She had accumulated so many life experiences; nothing could unsettle her. Her faith in God, and God’s provision, was constant. And though she had little in the way of financial resources, she always seemed to have a few dollars to give to a daughter or one of the grandchildren who was in need.
I have many memories of my grandmother, but several stand out. One particular memory I have is of eating her blackberry cobbler, made in a colorful pottery dish that had been handcrafted by the Navajo. She bought the tableware when the family lived in New Mexico.
Just beyond the back fence of my grandparents’ home was an empty, overgrown lot. And along that shared fence line, just on the other side, was a row of blackberry bushes. Her promise? If the grandchildren would pick the blackberries, she would make the cobbler. So, my cousins and I who happened to be at her home would slip carefully through the barbed wire, and we’d fill both bowl and belly with blackberries.
Her evening routine was very consistent during the years I knew her. After supper, Grandpa would read the paper and chew his Red Man tobacco. She would sit on the couch, and in the silence broken only by the sing-song of katydids, she, with her glasses and a magnifying glass, would spend whatever time remained reading her large-print Bible. I have no doubt she prayed for me, and all of her grandchildren, every day.
At no time did I hear her complain or whine. She always had a smile and seemed to always be genuinely grateful. She was barely 5 feet tall, but she was a giant within the family, because of her attitude, her faith, and her perseverance.
Between the time of Grandpa’s death and her death, she saved almost enough money from a $400 monthly social security check to pay for her own funeral expenses. When she died in 1994, she had 36 grandchildren and more than 70 great-grandchildren.
The lessons she taught in her lifetime are timeless. The gift of delicious fruit from thorn bushes. Good food made from the heart and hand of those who love you (and shared with those closest to you). I do believe these experiences are a glimpse into eternity.
Here’s hoping that you have a grandmother who is a part of your history, who has had such influence.
