In late summer, 1999, my mom and I took Grandma Jane for what ended up being her last visit to the Minnesota State Fair. At 81, Grandma had more energy than most teenagers. Having grown up on a farm in southwestern Minnesota, she hauled us through the animal barns, commenting knowledgeably on the size of the new calves and giggling at the bleating sheep. She was also always interested in the size of the tomatoes and corn in competition; we could spend hours combing through every nook and cranny of the horticulture building debating the effect of the weather on the year’s crops.
Nestled in one back corner of the giant octagonal building was the domain of another Minnesota octogenarian, Lillian Colton. Ms. Colton was the premier “crop artist” at the fair. She created amazingly accurate renditions of famous faces with only glue and seeds, years of experience having taught her how to choose exactly the right shade of seed from among the selection provided only by Minnesota-grown crops. On that particular afternoon, the master artist herself was on hand, giving lessons on index cards with small handfuls of seeds and pots of glue. A dozen children were seated at low tables, smearing paste and spilling dried beans on the floor in their efforts to create their own State Fair crop art masterpieces.
“Come on then, Merry,” Grandma commanded. It was clear she was itching to try out the craft. I hung back for a moment, uncertain about taking a seat at the table that was perhaps meant for a child. But Grandma Jane had already seated herself, pulled out a second chair, and turned to look expectantly at me. With a grin, I joined her and a pair of kindergarteners at the low table and reached for the glue. After about ten sticky minutes, during which I seem to remember having made my best approximation of a turkey out of dried beans and lentils, Ms. Colton called on all the “kids” to share their pictures with the gathering crowd. Each child took a turn standing up on a chair, telling the audience of proud parents about their young hopes and dreams, and shining for a moment in the spotlight. Anyone who thought that we, the lone adults at the tables, might quietly shy away from this display clearly didn’t know my Grandma Jane. When the attention fell upon our table, Grandma hauled herself up, presented her picture for display, and introduced herself to the crowd.
“My name is Jane Paulson,” she bellowed. “And when I grow up, I want to be a writer.”
That sentence said just about everything you need to know about Grandma Jane. Though she’d put in more than eight decades of time on this earth, had been married sixty years, worked a variety of jobs, survived breast cancer, raised five children and spoiled thirteen grandchildren, she was not yet done. There was still a future to hope for, and her latest dream was to write.
Of course, the process of English composition presented certain problems for Grandma Jane. Her parents, John and Adriana Tims arrived in Lake Wilson, Minnesota, from the Netherlands in 1910. There is nothing in the family history to suggest that they were especially happy together, and plenty of rumors and gossip to suggest that they weren’t, but they still managed to have fourteen surviving children. Adriana Gertrude Tims was number seven, and a kindly neighbor turned her lovely but unwieldy name into the more child-friendly “Jane.” Young Jane grew up speaking Dutch at home, and she only learned English once she started her formal education in the local one-room schoolhouse. She would always struggle with some aspects of the English language, but rather than being embarrassed by her occasionally freewheeling grammar, she’d shout with laughter at her own mistakes. Her opportunities to speak her native tongue dwindled over the years as she lost her parents and older siblings, but she was proud of her roots and endeavored – with very limited success – to teach some Dutch words and prayers to her grandchildren.
In spite of all the reasons why you might not expect Jane to flourish as an author of English prose, she had her own style of success at it. Over the course of five years, from 1995 until 2000, when she and her husband (our Grandpa Bill) died in an car accident, she published an almost monthly column in her church newsletter called “It’s Coffee Time.”
Coffee time meant a lot of things to Grandma Jane and to those of us who loved her. At Grandma and Grandpa’s place it could mean time for devotions; starting off the day with a bit of wisdom from the Bible was just as vital to her as a morning cup of her favorite beverage. Next was a mid-morning break, around 10:30 or 11:00, where coffee was accompanied by a little something to tide us over until the mid-day meal. Lunch was followed immediately by dessert (it was necessary to close out the meal properly) but a few hours later, she’d declare it coffee time again. It was a chance to relax in each other’s company; for the space of time it took to drink a cup – or a pot – of coffee, we would be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of being together. I remember that the day we spent at the fair we held to her usual schedule of breakfast followed by coffee and “a little treat” at midmorning, but come afternoon she was once again looking for a nice place to sit down with a steaming cup and a cookie.
Over the course of her tenure as a columnist, her work became increasingly skilled, though without ever losing its homespun charm. No one could tell Grandma Jane that 80 was too old to learn something new. Each month after the newsletter came out, she clipped her column, made the appropriate number of copies, and mailed it off to her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren with a little note of encouragement. I remember “It’s Coffee Time” sometimes coming in the mail with a shoebox of cookies (padded with hot cocoa packets to prevent them from breaking in transit), or a stamped envelope to make it easier to reply. I received my last letter from her the day after she died, reminding me that even though she would not be writing new columns anymore, she had the incredible foresight to set down on paper the wisdom of her years and experiences, so that she would always be able to spur us on. Here, my sister and I share her columns with you in the hope that her words – her plainspoken, creatively capitalized, and richly insightful writing – can spur you on as well.
