One bright morning, Grandma Cooper called out, “Come on, Bobby—we’re going to see Jay and Beatty!” As a kid, I always called them Uncle Jay and Aunt Beatty. It wasn’t until years later I found out they weren’t related at all. But as Grandma always said, “Treat everyone like family.” That was just her way—kind, openhearted, and always ready to turn strangers into lifelong friends.
Their place wasn’t just any cabin. From the outside, it was a patchwork of stones in every shape and size, held together with smooth wood and crowned with a simple front porch perfect for sitting and talking. Inside, the walls glowed with knotty pine, and a great stone fireplace stood proudly in the center, smelling faintly of burning wood and years of warmth. They had no electricity—only the soft flicker of kerosene lamps. The water came from a hand pump, and I loved every bit of it. But the best part? The cabin sat deep in the woods, right next to a swamp—an explorer’s paradise for a curious boy like me.
That morning, Grandma called again, letting me know it was time to head out. We got in the car and started down the road. I watched the trees whip by, waiting for the familiar turn toward Uncle Jay and Aunt Beatty’s cabin. But when we reached the intersection, Grandma just kept driving straight.
“Grandma,” I said helpfully, “you missed your turn back there.”
She looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and said, “We’re taking a Cooper Shortcut.”
That was the first time I ever heard those words.
“Cooper Shortcut?” I repeated, puzzled.
“We’re not lost,” she said, smiling. “A Cooper Shortcut means we don’t necessarily know where we’re headed—or when we might get there.” She paused, giving me that look that meant I should be listening closely. “As you grow older, life’s going to take you here and there. So a Cooper Shortcut isn’t just about getting somewhere—it’s about slowing down and enjoying the ride. You never know what blessings you’ll find along the way.”
I sat there, quiet for a moment, turning her words over in my mind, not sure I fully understood. But I was about to learn what she meant.
A little while later, Grandma slowed the car and pointed out the window. “See that?” she said, nodding toward a big pile of rocks beside a farmer’s field. “The good Lord guided us right to it. I’ve been wanting a few rocks for around the cottage.”
We got out, and she stood for a minute, surveying the pile like a general before a mission. Then she said, “Pick up a dozen rocks—big as you can carry—and bring them to the car.”
I went right to work, eager to show off my strength. I lugged rock after rock to the car until we’d filled the trunk. Back on the road, Grandma smiled. “We were pretty lucky today.”
I puffed up with pride, thinking she meant we’d found such fine rocks. But then she added, “Snakes like to make their homes in rock piles—and we didn’t see a single one.”
“Snakes?” I thought, my eyes wide. That was news I would’ve preferred before we started digging through the pile. From then on, I was much more careful around rocks—but in all our trips after that, I never did see a snake in or around a rock pile. Not once.
That day marked the beginning of many “Cooper Shortcuts.”
Sometimes we ended up at farmers markets, where Grandma seemed to spend more time chatting with folks than shopping. (At the time, I thought that part was boring.) Other days we stopped to pick wild raspberries or blackberries, our fingers stained red and purple. We’d grab fried cake donuts from a small-town bakery or stop for ice cream at a roadside stand. Once in a while, she’d find a hidden swimming hole and tell me and Chere to go splash around while she watched from the shore.
My little sister Chere reminded me that Grandma Cooper often let us help decide which way our Cooper Shortcut Adventure Journey would go. As we’d come to an intersection, Grandma would grin and ask, “Which way do we go?” Then everyone in the car would join in:
“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe;
catch a tiger by the toe;
if he hollers, let him go;
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe;
Which way do we go?”
We’d all point in different directions, laughing as Grandma quickly chose one of the pointed fingers and turned that way. The car would burst with excitement, all of us eager to see what waited around the next bend.
Each trip was different—no maps, no schedules, no rush.
We’d wind through country roads, Grandma pointing out crops in the fields, naming trees and wildflowers like she’d known them all her life. Every turn held a new surprise, and every stop was a small adventure.
Over time, I learned that “Cooper Shortcut” wasn’t about the destination at all. It was about discovery, connection, and the simple joy of slowing down. Grandma Cooper’s shortcuts taught me to appreciate the journey—to see the beauty in detours and the lessons in small moments.
And to this day, whenever life takes an unexpected turn, I can almost hear her voice say with that knowing smile,
“We’re not lost—we’re just taking a Cooper Shortcut.”
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