Chapter 42—Celebrating Grandparents Day: Honoring George and Rosa Schmieder
A Day to Honor Grandparents
On Sunday, September 13, 2026—National Grandparents Day—we pause to honor George and Rosa Schmieder and the enduring legacy they left to their family.
National Grandparents Day is a relatively recent observance in the United States. Its establishment is credited largely to Marian McQuade of West Virginia, who began campaigning for such a day in 1970. She hoped to encourage families to recognize the wisdom and contributions of older people and to strengthen the bonds between generations. In 1978, Congress established National Grandparents Day as an annual observance on the first Sunday after Labor Day. The nation celebrated it for the first time in 1979.
For those of us whose grandparents are no longer living, Grandparents Day offers a chance to remember them and share their stories. In that spirit, this chapter honors George and Rosa—not only for the family and farm they built, but for the moments their grandchildren still carry with them.
Forty-One Grandchildren
George and Rosa Schmieder had forty-one grandchildren. Each knew them in a slightly different way and carried away a unique collection of memories. Some remembered working beside them on the farm. Others recalled holiday gatherings, Sunday visits, meals around the kitchen table, or quiet conversations. The older grandchildren knew George and Rosa when the farm was still bustling with daily activity, while some of the younger ones had few opportunities to know them personally.
Taken together, these recollections form a family portrait richer and more revealing than any single photograph. They preserve not only what George and Rosa accomplished, but also how it felt to be one of their grandchildren.
Waiting for Grandpa’s Tractor
My own memories begin in our yard, across the fields from their farmhouse on the southern slope of Hall’s Hill.
My brothers, Jim and Bill, and I would watch Grandpa drive his red Farmall Model C tractor as he prepared the hay for baling. Whenever he came near our yard, we waved enthusiastically, hoping he would notice us and invite us to ride along. To three young boys, few things were more exciting than a tractor ride with Grandpa. We waited eagerly for his signal and for the chance to join him, if only for a little while, in the work taking place across the field.
Small Tastes of the Old Country
Visits to Grandpa and Grandma sometimes included a trip into the basement, where Grandpa kept barrels of homemade hard cider. He would pour himself a glass and allow us a small sip. Then he would unwrap his Speck from the refrigerator—the cured or smoked pork fat that recalled the foods of his German homeland—and cut a small piece for each of us.
These were small moments, but they felt like invitations into Grandpa’s world and into customs he had carried from another time and place.
Gifts from the Farm and Fields
One October afternoon in the early 1960s, while we were watching a televised World Series game after school, Grandpa arrived with a pumpkin he had found while harvesting corn on the Hahn Flats. Pumpkins were sometimes planted between the cornrows, where they grew largely untended beneath the tall stalks. To a child, this pumpkin seemed like a treasure brought in from the autumn field—an unexpected gift from Grandpa.
There was always something happening around the farm. I remember Grandpa teaching me how to shovel ground grain—the feed for the dairy cows—into a bin in the grain room. Above it was the chicken house, where he showed me how to gather eggs and carefully place them in the basket. Lifting each warm egg from its nest gave me the satisfaction of helping Grandpa with a real farm chore.
At other times, Grandpa would take us by tractor or truck and drop us off in the back pasture. Our assignment was to bring the cows down the pasture lane for the evening milking. For children, it was both a responsibility and an adventure. Walking behind the herd, we called out, “Come, boss! Come, boss!” as the cows followed their familiar path toward the barn—part of the daily rhythm of life on the farm.
Blackberries, Cherries, and Cream
One summer day, after lunch with Grandpa and Grandma, I set out with Grandpa on another ride aboard the Farmall C. We followed the pasture lane to a hedgerow where wild blackberries grew among the brambles. Together, we picked the ripe berries, carefully avoiding the thorns and placing our harvest in a tin milk pail.
When we returned to the farmhouse, Grandma served the freshly picked blackberries in bowls with fresh cream and a sprinkling of sugar. Nothing elaborate was needed. The berries had come from the hedgerow, and the cream had come from the farm. What made the dessert unforgettable was the whole afternoon: lunch with my grandparents, a tractor ride with Grandpa, berries picked together, and Grandma waiting at home to serve them.
Near the farmhouse stood a cherry tree that became part of our childhood adventures. My cousins Guy and Tom, my brothers Jim and Bill, and I would climb among its branches, eating cherries as we picked them. We tried to save enough to bring back to Grandma, who would make a cherry Kuchen. The cherries were wonderful straight from the tree, but we looked forward to what Grandma would bake with them.
Grandpa’s Playful Spirit
Grandpa brought humor and playfulness into our visits. Sitting on the porch steps, he would toss a coin onto the ground in front of him and challenge us to retrieve it. The game carried a risk: if he caught us before we escaped, he would pull down the back of our pants. We laughed, hesitated, planned our approach, and tried to outsmart him. Grandpa enjoyed the contest as much as we did.
He possessed other unexpected talents. If a fly buzzed through the farmhouse, Grandpa could catch it in his cupped hand and throw it onto the floor. To his grandchildren, it was another remarkable thing he could do.
His playfulness lived alongside a lifetime of hard work. The hands that drove the tractor, handled grain, gathered eggs, and harvested crops also picked blackberries with us, shared pieces of Speck, and tossed a coin into the yard to begin a game.
Rosa’s Quiet Presence
Grandma Rosa was quieter and more reserved than Grandpa. I remember her clothesline stretching across the yard, with the laundry moving in the country breeze, and her rosebushes bringing color to the farmhouse. I remember, too, the welcome of her kitchen: cherries made into Kuchen and blackberries served with cream.
After Grandpa George died in 1967, visits with Grandma felt different. The farmhouse and fields still held memories of the life they had built together, but Grandpa was no longer there to climb onto the tractor or sit on the porch steps. We continued to visit Grandma. She said little, but I remember her steady presence and the way she carried on.
A Legacy Found in Ordinary Moments
We never heard George or Rosa talk about leaving a legacy. They worked, raised their family, practiced their faith, welcomed their grandchildren, and went about the duties of each day. In doing so, they gave us memories that have lasted long after those days on the farm.
No single grandchild can tell their whole story. One may remember a tractor ride, another a favorite meal, a holiday gathering, or a quiet visit at the farmhouse. In my memories, Grandpa made room for us amid his work, and Grandma welcomed what we brought from the fields into her kitchen. They gave us their time and invited us into their daily lives.
When I think of George and Rosa, I see Grandpa’s red Farmall C moving across a field and three boys waving from their yard. I remember warm eggs placed in a basket, cows walking down the pasture lane, and cherries eaten high in a tree. I see laundry stirring on Grandma’s clothesline, roses blooming beside the farmhouse, and a bowl of wild blackberries covered with fresh cream and sugar.
These may seem like ordinary memories. With the passing of time, I have come to recognize them as gifts—moments of work, playfulness, family, faith, and love that have stayed with me throughout my life.
On Grandparents Day, we remember George and Rosa Schmieder with gratitude. We honor the life they built on their farm, the traditions they preserved, and the family they nurtured. Most of all, we give thanks for the time they gave their grandchildren and for the stories we can now share with the generations that follow.
Frederick Schmieder