My Grandma is Better than Your Grandma

On Nov. 30, 2002, I conducted my very first interview. It wasn't as a newspaper reporter or as a magazine editor—I've conducted countless hours of those interviews since. This one was special, not only because it was my first, but because the subject was my maternal grandmother—Georgia Cordingley Oberhansley.

It was during the Thanksgiving break prior to my last semester at Brigham Young University. I had found out earlier that month that one of the options for Senior Courses the next semester—among mind-numbing literature classes and linguistics classes—included Oral History. Even though I had never tasted of oral history before, it had jumped out at me so fiercely that I scheduled an interview before the semester even started.

(As it turns out, that was a smart idea anyway. Since my grandmother was over 300 miles away from campus—and because there isn't ONE SINGLE day off from classes during BYU's Winter semesters because they have to pack so many events on campus after the Winter semester concludes and before the next Fall semester ends—that I couldn't have interviewed her in person after the semester started. Sorry. Rant over.)

Grandma Georgia didn't divulge very many details during that interview, but she told me a lot more than I had heard before. While I had always loved and adored Grandma Georgia, after the interview was over I almost worshiped her. I literally have the greatest grandmother in the world. Anyone who says different is wrong. Here’s why:

Georgia Cordingley grew up as a country girl, in a quaint little town called Marysville, Idaho, a mile east from the town of Ashton. While attending high school in Ashton, she met my grandfather—Wayne Alvin Oberhansley—who was boxing a cousin of hers during the boxing match. In the interview she says, “He really took my eye then,” but since then she’s told me a little more about the match. Apparently, Wayne was doing such a good job that she “enjoyed watching him beat the hell out of” her cousin.

He caught her eye then, but after his family moved from St. Anthony to nearby Farnum, she started to fall for him—and became good friends with his sister, Maydea. One day, the two friends wanted to go roller skating in St. Anthony. Georgia asked Wayne. Wayne’s sister, Maydea, and Georgia’s brother, Hollis, went with them. Then at the roller skating rink, Grandma and Grandpa ditched their siblings and went on a drive. They lost track of time. When they came back, the rink was already closed and it was starting to rain. Their siblings weren't happy. Oops.

Grandpa was drafted into the Marines when he was 19 and fought in World War II. (That’ll be the subject of a future blog post.) After he returned, he proposed and the two were married in 1947.

Then they started having kids.

Their first, my mother, LaDawn, was born on Mother’s Day in 1948. The second, Dennis, was born 12 months later. Then identical twins—Garth and Gary—were born about two and a half years after that, making four children under three years old. Now, I have to mention that at the time, they were dry farming and building a home next to his parents’ home near Conant Creek and Fall River. They didn't have electricity or running water yet, which means Grandma Georgia hauled water up from Conant Creek for all of their needs—including washing cloth diapers for three of the four kids. (At this point, only my mother was out of diapers.)

She says, “I had been a very fussy person who couldn't stand to have anything out of place, until I had four babies. I had to stop being so fussy. That was the happiest time of my life.”

Four years after the twins, she had another girl, Ina. Thirteen months later, she had a boy, Steve. With six children, she believed her family was complete. Then 10 years later, she found out she was pregnant again. After she welcomed Number Seven (Eric) into the family, she decided she didn't want him to grow up without a sibling to play with. (His next sibling was 10 years older!) She tried again and became pregnant.

Here’s the funny part. My mom—you know, the oldest—was already pregnant with her first. So four months after my mom gave birth to her first—Corbett—in 1969, Grandma gave birth to her last, Craig. She says, “Four months before I had Craig, we had this little gran

dson who was so adorable. I always wanted to have him out with Eric, so when I went to the hospital four months later and had Craig, I was as lonesome for Corbett as I was for Eric. When I left the hospital, I stopped and picked up Corbett, took him home, and the boys slept clear through the night. It was so fun. Corbett was just like my kid.”

Grandma was done giving birth to children, but she wasn't done raising them. When Craig was in the fourth-grade, she had the opportunity to take in a Native American foster child during the school seasons, through the Indian Placement Program of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. (The program lasted from 1947 to 2000.)

She took in a boy named Jay Redfox—the same age as Craig and Corbett—who wasn't keen on the program. At first, he’d just “sit there and frown.” The first two words he spoke to Grandma were after she accidentally peeled out in the car, getting onto a paved road from a dirt road. He said, simply, “Old Buzzard peels out too.”* He took a liking to Grandpa, since he had never known his own father, but he’d only call Grandma “Hey You.” At least temporarily.

She says, “Finally, one day I said, ‘I’m not “Hey you.” You either call me Georgia, or you call me mom like the other kids!’ He just frowned at me. He went to school, and one day the phone rang, I picked it up, and Jay said, ‘Mom…’ From then on, he was my very best friend. He didn't want to go to bed; he wanted to stay up until I went to bed. He would stand and help me cook and everything.”

Grandma also took in one more Native American boy, Murray Phillips, who was a half-brother to Jay. She affectionately called them “my Indians.” She loved them as much as any parents do their own children, so when Uncle Jay died in 2012, Grandma took it the hardest. I guarantee no one in Eagle Butte, South Dakota, mourned for Jay as much as Grandma did.

Grandpa died in 2006, and shortly after that Grandma bought a smaller house in Ashton and moved away from “the ranch,” having spent most of her 59 years of marriage in that house. (Eric bought the homestead and now lives there.) To date, she has 40 grandchildren—including Jay and Murray’s children, who not only call her “Grandma” but call her up on the phone regularly. I don’t know how many great-grandchildren she has, but she even has one great-great grandchild—my niece’s daughter, Brooklyn Vega.

She may not receive any official awards in this life for being the greatest grandmother ever, but when that dreaded day comes when she’s called home to her Heavenly Father, there will be no doubt in anyone’s minds on this Earth who takes the crown.

*She actually said, “Old buzzards peel out too,” but I’m guessing there was an old woman on the reservation known (probably not affectionately) as Old Buzzard.