MEMORIES
I don't think grandparents should be in a position to raise their grandchildren, but sometimes it's necessary. Without grandparents children wouldn't have champions. Who's the common enemy? Parents, of course. (That's a joke, son)
My grandmother took me, a two-year-old, and my sister, a newborn to raise. Mother died three days after her child was born. Mom, as we called her, must have been in her early or mid 50s when this happened, but she was an old woman by that time.
Mom was born to a German middle-class family in Baltimore, Maryland. She was educated to the 3rd grade, and didn't speak English until she went to school. She still had an accent, but we kids didn't really hear it. It wasn't until I was older that I heard her w's turn to v's.
My grandparents had eight children, five of whom survived the flu epidemic of 1918. I think that was the year. Mother was the eldest. Three boys died in that epidemic, and I was told by an uncle that Grandpa almost went crazy with grief. As an aside, I've wondered why we didn't call him Dad, as we called our grandmother Mom. But, no, he was always Grandpa.
But back to Mom. She was a cook, like whom I have no one to compare. I remember bread baking day. Ah, that wonderful aroma! She baked loaves, rolls, and cinnamon rolls. Oh, my those cinnamon rolls! Brown sugar, butter (no, not margarine!) and raisins; and the syrupy coating on the bottom of the rolls turned into a crusty, chewy delight.
Mom also made her own sauerkraut. Briny, not vinegary. I haven't had the likes of her sauerkraut--ever.
I remember one summer when she was canning peaches. Peaches had a lot of fuzz on their skin back then. Not the smooth-skinned rocks we get in the grocery stores nowadays. Anyway, I sneaked a peach, rubbed off some of the fuzz and enjoyed the sweet, juicy peach. And ended up with a very sore mouth. Mom was sympathetic, but not very. But at least I didn't get spanked for taking without asking first.
Her apple pie was to die for. Crust as almost as thin as paper, delicate and flaky. And the apples seasoned to perfection with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and maybe some allspice. And dotted with butter. I've tried to duplicate her recipe, but can't quite get it. Or at least, I can't get the flavor I remember.
Besides being a great cook, her house was immaculate. But of course, she couldn't admit to that. "Ach, it's such a mess." Yeah, right! She couldn't tolerate a mess for even a minute. I remember once she spilled a bit of sugar and had to sweep it up immediately. Couldn't stand the feel of the crunching sugar under her shoes.
Monday was washday. No exceptions. And she had to be the first one in the neighborhood to get her wash on the line. Nobody ever produced whiter linens and brighter colors. Nobody. The sheets and clothing were hung on the clothesline, but smaller items were spread out on the bushes to dry.
Oh, and speaking of bushes: Mom had a green thumb, or maybe even two green hands. She could grow anything. I remember her grapevines. Big purple Concord grapes and the white variety grew prolifically on her vines. There was also an arbor that shaded the west side of the house, and those grapes were small, but the sweetest I've ever put in my mouth. I remember enjoying Mom's home made root beer while sitting under that wonderful, cool arbor.
Her flowers were sensational. She had a bleeding heart that was cut to the ground in the winter, and bloomed profusely in the spring and summer. Her snapdragons grew so tall, and the snaps were so much fun to play with. It may be a child's memory, but those snaps were bigger than anything you see today. Baby's breath lined the small irrigation ditch that ran along the edge of the propery. I don't remember all the plants she tended. I just remember they flourished.
Yes, and there were chickens in a backyard coop. Fresh eggs. I didn't like to fetch the eggs; I was afraid a hen would peck me. I remember once when Mom caught an old hen for dinner. Watched her wring the hen's neck. I couldn't eat dinner that night.
I remember evenings in the winter, by the stove in the dining room. Mom never did learn to relax. If she sat down she had some sewing, mending, darning (yes darning). I learned to darn sox. Throw away a holey sock. Ach! so wasteful! No, I think she patched the patches. I remember seeing her tat. How that shuttle flew, and the thread that turned into lace. I've never figured out how it worked.
But then, these were depression times, and families had to make do with what they had. And Mom was naturally frugal. She managed to save pennies on the pittance she was given. The year I was 16, she gave me a beautiful pair of pierced earrings, which I still have. The stones (glass) looked like sapphires. They probably weren't very expensive, but they represented a denial to herself of something she might have saved for. I love those earrings, and I get compliments when I wear them.
I adored my Grandpa. He wanted nothing in life but to be a farmer. And when he did have a chance to farm a little acreage, his melons were the tastiest and juiciest ever! He used to sing to me German songs, and while the grandparents were forbidden to speak the language to the grandchildren, Grandpa could still sing Ach, du lieber Augustine.
Grandpa smoked smelly cigars, but not in the house. Mom forbade it. He had a fine mustache, but one day he shaved it off. I was incredulous! I cried out, That's not my Grandpa! Well, he did grow it back.
Grandpa used to take my sister to town for ice cream cones. That was their special time together.
I remember when the grandfolks lived on a farm, and sister and I lived with them. I must have been less than 8 years old, because I went to live with my aunt then. Anyway, I got on a school bus that went to a one-room schoolhouse. Honest. Really. A one-room schoolhouse, with a pot bellied stove. While living on the farm, I got caught on a barb wire fence, and I still have the scar.
I don't think they lived on the farm very long, because most of my memories were of the house in town. In fact, I thought they owned the house, but I learned fairly recently that they rented. That's when I figured out that they moved to a house on the other side of town when the one of memory was sold by the owner.
Mom had rheumatoid arthritis, but that didn't slow her down. Much. I remember watching her rub her hands to ease the pain. But she still mended, darned, cooked, kept house, did the dishes. The heat of the dishwater probably was soothing.
Did you know that doctors used to make house calls? I remember when Mom had a heart attack (probably a mild one), and the doctor came to the house. I remember when I had a boil immediately under my jawline. The doctor came to the house to lance it. I still have that scar, too.
I remember sharing a bedroom with Aunt E before she got married. I don't know for sure, but I think maybe sister slept in our grandmother's bedroom. Later on we shared the bedroom that Aunt E and I had shared.
Grandpa had a friend, a Mr. Booth, who with his wife lived in another town, the name of which I've forgotten. Mr. Booth also smoked cigars, and I remember the smell. It wasn't objectionable then, but I surely do hate the smell now. Grandpa and Mr. Booth were cut from the same cloth, and Mom and Mrs. Booth were too. Well, I guess I won't go into that, but they were, to hear the women complain, both very mismatched couples. But I loved Mr. Booth almost as much as I loved Grandpa.
I think I'll stop now. I remember a lot more things, and maybe I'll write about them some other time.
Shalom