Tag: memories

Firsts

Originally posted 11/25/2020

Thanksgiving marks the first holiday without my sweet grandmother. I’m so thankful for all of the pictures I have taken and posted over the past several years, though they are bittersweet as they come across my social media feed—especially this week. So many holiday memories are flooding through my mind. Grandmom was my last living grandparent. This first holiday without her reminds me of other first holidays without my other family members—grandparents, my great aunt who visited several times a year and helped teach me to cook, and my great grandparents who I was blessed to have time with into young adulthood. My great grandfather even got to meet my son before he passed. I’m thankful to have those memories, even though they are difficult at times. Losing Grandmom has been tough—I was closer to her than my other grandparents, and I had the most time with her at a time when I had enough wisdom and maturity to see the value in that time.

As a child, I struggled to value family gatherings. When we gathered with one side of the family, the gatherings were big, loud, and hot—and often filled with “oh how you’ve grown” from people I barely knew. I had some cousins who were fun—but I was the kid in the middle with several older and several younger. I loved caroling, family prayers at the big dinners, and giggling over my grandmother trying to force us to eat pimento cheese sandwiches (which I always thought were super gross!). However, I was too young to have a true sense of how precious those memories were. I treasure them now, though I haven’t seen those relatives in 20 years or more. The other side of the family is much smaller—and significantly quieter!! Holidays there were slow and easy—and not super exciting to a small child. I enjoyed the Charlie Brown specials, watching the parades on TV, and the great meals—but “visiting” isn’t easy for a child—or at least it wasn’t for me. As I got older, the highlight was finding ways to sneak Grandpop some chocolate when Grandmom wasn’t looking, since she didn’t want him to have it after he had a heart attack. I think it takes age and maturity to recognize the importance of those times—both the silly memories and the gift of family time.

As I’m looking toward this first holiday without Grandmom, I’m thinking about the last few family dinners at her assisted living/skilled nursing facility. She was so proud to introduce us and show us off to her friends—telling anyone who would listen that I am her granddaughter, and my kids are her great grandchildren. Last year was a bit tough as her decline was more pronounced after a difficult month leading up to the celebration, but it was still such a sweet memory. The Thanksgiving celebration where she lived was always the Sunday before Thanksgiving. I always made sure that we could be there because I knew that she was so happy to see us. I was sad that I didn’t need to plan for it this year.

As I prepare for Thanksgiving this year, in a strange way, the current pandemic is a blessing. I am going to miss Thanksgiving with my extended family, but I don’t have to sit with one less seat at the typical dinner table. Our virtual celebrations with family don’t change the reality—but I don’t have to face the empty chair.

There will be many other firsts to come with other holidays, her birthday, and eventually the anniversary of her passing. Each first will be tough, but the precious memories I have will always make my heart full and bring a smile to my face.

Thanks for reading! 😊 EW

Legacy

Originally posted 10/31/2020

I have so much to write about my sweet grandmother, but in the past few weeks, I have found myself at a loss for words. How do you summarize such a long, full and meaningful life? How do you properly honor the memory of someone so dear? There are so many stories that are swirling in my mind as I think of her, remember her, and try to make sense of how a life so well lived could end the way it did—dark, struggling to breathe and alone. The biggest ache of the difficulties of this year for me is that she was alone. We knew, and we couldn’t be there.

But, that is not her legacy. Her life well lived need not be remembered by the last few dark hours. I wanted to be there for her—but I also wanted to be there for me. Thankfully, that fact doesn’t change the years that I had with her, the memories that we made, and the stories I have to tell.

When my grandfather first passed away, Grandmom and I talked a lot about how she was coping with him being gone. She wrote about it in much of the writing she did in the few years following his passing. She took writing classes offered by a woman she went to church with to help her to put her thoughts into words. There were moments we were talking when she asked me if I thought she was crazy as she described those late night and early morning moments between sleeping and waking that she saw him, felt him, smelled his aftershave. She told me that they talked sometimes—because she needed him to help her figure out how to do things on her own. When it came time for her to move into town, while she knew that it was the right choice because she couldn’t take care of the house and land on her own, she told me that she was afraid that he wouldn’t come with her. But, of course, he did. Memories of him traveled with her everywhere. Talking with him continued to help her navigate all the new things she was dealing with after he passed.

In the last few years of her life, her stories were a mix of sweet memories and frustration. She missed him so much, continued to share more and more stories of their life together, and she told me that it was never their plan for one of them to grow old alone. They did everything together—aging and end of life were supposed to be included. She also talked about how the journey through his illness and death and learning how to live life alone strengthened her faith in and reliance on God. She was honest about her sadness, hurt, and at times anger over being alone—but she also knew that she wasn’t truly alone. God was with her and was strengthening her and equipping her through the process.  She talked about growing in ways that she never thought she would. Grandpop, though he was a man of faith, never felt comfortable in church. He was self-conscious over his lack of formal education and was not one who liked small talk or interacting in groups. Grandmom enjoyed getting involved in her church when she moved to town; helping in the office, going to Bible studies, and taking the writing classes. She helped with the church bazaar, went to women’s groups (which she called “widows’ groups” as they were all older and had all lost their husbands), and helped with the annual apple butter making day. It was a part of her that she hadn’t grown or developed much in her adult life.

Legacy is a strange thing with so many parts. The good, the bad, the lovely, and the ugly all have their place and play a part. As Kermit the Frog (the best Bob Cratchit of all time) says, “Life is full of meetings and partings; that is the way of it.” The times in between make the parting so difficult and the memories so sweet. There will never be enough words, and words will never be enough.

Thanks for reading! 😊 EW

Sewing, Quilting, & Needlepoint

Originally posted 10/17/2020

As I’m thinking about my grandmother today, I’m thinking of the skills she taught me as I was growing up. She taught me to sew—by hand, on an electric machine, and on her treadle machine. I spent many days sitting on the floor of her sewing room and listening to her stories as she taught me to sew buttonholes (always by hand—she never trusted the buttonhole attachment on her machine), needlepoint on pillowcases, aprons & tablecloths, and watching her hand sew her latest quilt. She made a leaf quilt, making patterns for the leaves using leaves from the trees on their property and matching fabric colors to the colors of the leaves in the fall. I loved watching her work on it. It was a beautiful quilt, and she was so proud of the work she put into it. We made dolls and doll clothes, teddy bears, and clothes both for me and for the young children who lived on their gravel road. As I got older, I helped with the steps more and more, learning to measure, pin & cut patterns, along with becoming more skilled on the machine.

The treadle machine was in the kitchen/dining room of their house during the summer that she taught me to join my sewing skills with some family history. The machine had been at her family’s farm when she was growing up and she had gotten it to keep it in the family as an adult. She told me stories of making clothes for herself and her siblings using that machine as she was teaching me how to use the treadle to keep an even pace. The treadle required more coordination than I had for most things—it proved a huge labor of love and patience on her part to work with me until I got it right. While we continued to do most of our projects on the electric machine, I practiced on the treadle every time I visited. I loved sharing that time and that part of our family history with her.

Grandmom’s favorite phrase as I was learning to sew, which she repeated often was “whatsoever a girl seweth, that she will also rip.” It was her spin on combining Scripture with sewing humor. It made me roll my eyes back then, but I smile as I cherish the memory now. She was so patient with me as she taught me that mistakes could be fixed and that it was important to take the time to do it well.

One of Grandmom’s biggest frustrations with aging was that arthritis slowly took away her ability to quilt, sew, needlepoint, knit & crochet. I regret not taking the time to let her teach me to knit and not giving enough time to truly learn when she was teaching me to crochet. There were always other things to do, and then she wasn’t able to teach anymore. Even though my thoughts of her are bittersweet, I am so thankful for the things she taught me and the memories of the time we spent together.

Thanks for reading! 😊 EW

World War 2

Originally posted 10/4/2020

Today’s post is a typed version of my grandmother’s writing. Toward the end of my grandfather’s life, when he was struggling to orient to present time and place, he began to talk about his time at war in ways that he hadn’t before. My grandmother wrote at times as he talked and also wrote their story. I am honored beyond measure that she willingly shared her writing with me and am pleased to be able to share it with you:

Like all young men of that time, Fred had to register for the draft at age 18. He had done that in August, 1941. We had been dating only 2 months at that time.

We spent as much time together as we possibly could that summer, fall and into the new year 1942. We were sure that we were meant to be a couple for life. The fact that I was born 9 months after his birth (August 19, 1923-May 19, 1924) was the only proof we needed.

We were married in the Lakehurst Methodist Parsonage on a Friday evening, November 20, 1942 and started our life as a couple in a one room and bath apartment over a garage in Toms River, NJ. The bathroom was small with one end of the tub under the slanting roof and ceiling, the opposite end from the faucets. It seemed that almost every time Fred stood in the tub, it was at that end. I’d hear the thump when his head bumped that low ceiling followed by his self-scolding comment. After a while it became difficult to control my chuckling laughter.

Before getting out of the car at the parsonage, he showed me the mail he had received that day; official “Greetings” from Uncle Sam scheduling him for a first appearance for the draft. Not the best news but we knew it was inevitable.

Basic training took place in Maryland. Later he was sent to Fort Devens, Massachusetts for training in heavy equipment. After a while there, he could receive overnight passes to leave the base. He phones and asked if I would consider traveling to Massachusetts to spend some time with him. Would I?!

I went by train from Lakehurst to Jersey City (the end of the line) crossed the river to New York City by ferry then by train to Boston, then changed to a local train that went through the town close to Fort Devens, my stop. Fred had rented a room at a small local hotel where I stayed for almost a week before returning to Lakehurst. A young woman traveling alone at that time was not unusual and transportation personnel were very helpful, thoughtful and considerate. Most of them were older men, some returning to work filling vacancies left by younger men called into service—very different from today.

At Christmastime the volume of mail was so heavy that post office personnel couldn’t keep up with it. A call went to nearby military bases for volunteer help. Fred volunteered and was sent to the Hartford, Connecticut area and again I was called to join him there. He drove a US Postal vehicle during the day, gathering mail from the drop boxes around the city. After reporting to post office officials at day’s end, he was on a pass until 8am the next day. On December 23rd, he told me that I should plan to return to Lakehurst because his assignment would end on the 24th and so would his daily leaves. So back to Lakehurst I went by train and by bus. I had been home only a short time when he came in the door all smiles! What a wonderful surprise! It seems reports from the local post masters about soldiers’ work ethic earned some 3 day passes, so he was home for the holiday! The perfect Christmas gift.

When his heavy equipment training was completed he returned to Maryland. From there he could spend 2 nights and one full day at home on a 3 day pass, which he did once or twice before the order came for his unit to prepare to leave for a new assignment—which turned out to be overseas to Europe in combat against Germany.

Expectation (a typed piece)

How well I remember Christmas 1945.

V-E Day, Victory in Europe in World War 2 had happened in May. Late in autumn I waited eagerly, as always, for a letter from my husband, hoping for some word that he would soon be coming home. Letters arrived regularly but nothing definite about his return. Until December 9th when word went out that a group of soldiers had arrived from Europe and would be mustered out at Fort Monmouth that afternoon.

I was there when he came down the steps of the Chapel, still in uniform but once more a civilian! Waiting with me to greet his Daddy was our 11-month-old son who he would meet and hold for the first time!

Our Christmas arrived early that year.

Thanks for reading! 😊 EW

Blackberry Picking Days

Originally posted 9/19/2020

One of my favorite activities when I spent time on my grandparents’ farm was picking blackberries. We would go out early, before the heat of the day. Grandmom always insisted that we wear long sleeves, pants, gloves and hats, which was tough in the middle of the summer but very necessary. For those who don’t know, blackberry bushes have thorns—and they are sharp! Grandpop drove the tractor with a trailer on the back. Grandmom and I would be in the trailer so we could reach the bushes without having to stand in the surrounding brush. Grandpop pulled up as close to the bushes he could get, and we would start picking. As we picked, we sorted them into empty ice cream buckets. There were days that we spent hours picking, finding ripe berries on all the bushes and picking from just after breakfast until lunchtime. The best time to pick was just after rain. The berries were so juicy—and the thorns weren’t quite as sharp. Our gloves, sleeves, and often our boots got stained with blackberry juice as we continued to pick. Grandpop took the same path every time, just to be sure that we were checking each bush thoroughly. Even though we all knew that we had gotten them all and the new ones didn’t ripen overnight, I tried to talk them into going out picking every morning just in case we had missed some.

When we finished picking, we had to soak the berries (I learned that spiders really like hiding in blackberries!), wash them, and then we could finally eat! It was so hard to be patient at first, though the possibility of spiders made it easier to wait. We made cobbler, jelly & danishes; and we packed some of them to freeze for later. My favorite way to eat them was fresh with a bowl of vanilla ice cream. It was the taste of summer. No blackberries I have eaten since those summers have been the same as the ones we picked in the morning and ate after lunch.

Thanks for reading! 😊 EW

Memories from growing up—time with Grandmom & Grandpop

Originally posted 9/9/2020



When I was very young, we lived hours away from my
grandparents. They were in New Jersey and we were in Georgia, North Carolina,
Alabama, and then Missouri. They were relatives who visited once or twice a
year—every now and then going to New Jersey but more often they came to visit
us. I heard a lot of old stories of growing up on the farm, the war, Grandpop
working construction and Grandmom working in the local school. Every visit felt
nostalgic, even when I was little. I love the stories, learning about things
that seemed so strange and different (I had pretty much no farm experience—and,
honestly, don’t have much more now than I did then!)



When I was in elementary school, my grandparents retired and
moved to Missouri. They stayed with us for a bit (no idea how long—time had
little meaning at that age!) and then moved to the middle of nowhere—almost
literally. They were halfway between one very small town and another very small
town—but were miles from either one. They were on a dirt road on 100 acres with
woods, a pond, and blackberries. I started going out there during the summer
for a week or two. Though I didn’t always appreciate the quiet life (they had a
party line phone and 2 tv stations!), I learned so much during my times there.
Every evening, I walked to the pond with Grandpop to feed the catfish. We
fished at times, but mostly we fed the fish so they would get big enough to be
good eating. They had a fantastic garden—several kinds of beans, corn,
tomatoes, asparagus, and strawberries. At times they grew more, and at times
they grew less. I learned to drive a riding mower and then a tractor as I got
older. I learned to shoot a bow and a shotgun (can’t say I was great at either
one, but I learned). We played badminton in the evenings, had picnics under the
shade trees, and walked in the woods when the weather was right. There were so
many lessons to be learned about a life that was so different than my day to
day. No matter what we were doing, Grandmom told stories.



As I got older, graduated from high school, and went to
college, I spent a lot less time there. They were getting older and I was
getting busier. I went back to seeing them only a few times a year, usually on
holidays. We would catch up—me talking about my studies and them catching me up
on the garden, the deer, the catfish, and the other country events. I missed my
time with them, but life got in the way.



While I was in college, Grandpop got cancer. His health was
up and down with treatment, but given his age, stage, and type of cancer, we
knew what we were looking toward. I was so thankful that he was able to attend
my wedding, and even more thankful when he was still around to meet his first
great grandchild. Some of my sweetest memories were of him sitting with my
toddler-age son, reading together and telling stories. When I was pregnant with
my second child, he passed away. Death of a loved one is hard—that death coming
during pregnancy I learned was much harder. I made the decision to name my
second child after him if possible (my ultrasounds were never conclusive, so we
weren’t certain whether I was expecting another boy or a girl). When I
delivered a little girl a few months later, she was named after Grandmom in his
honor.



The next spring, I was able to take my kids out to
Grandmom’s house to fish, picnic under the trees, and ride the riding mower
& the tractor. There was no garden that year, but it was still amazing to
share the place of my youth with my preschool son and my baby daughter. I knew
that they wouldn’t get to experience it like I did because they were so young
and Grandmom couldn’t stay out there alone, but they got to see it and have a
small taste of the place I loved. My son caught his first fish in their pond
and took a walk in the woods where I had walked with Grandpop. I wouldn’t trade
those memories for anything.



Enough rambling for now. More favorite memories to share in
future posts.



Thanks for reading! 😊 EW



Grandmom Stories Part 1

Originally posted 9/6/2020

My sweet, sassy grandmother is 96. She is a strong and amazing woman who lived through the depression, World War 2, her solider husband’s return from the war, raising children in a small New Jersey town, a retirement move halfway across the country, and her husband taken too soon after a long and arduous battle with colon cancer. She is an opinionated, old school, pragmatic realist of the highest degree. When I was young, she taught me so many life lessons—sewing, gardening, picking blackberries, embroidery, preparing for winter in the best ways, quilting, baking, and cooking. We sat under the trees singing show tunes when it was too hot to work or play, we played badminton, had piano sing alongs, and watched Cardinals games. We chatted with the neighbors, sharing stories, produce, and the stuff of life. I am thankful that my kids have gotten to spend some time with her, though they don’t know the Grandmom that I know.

In recent years, our relationship has changed. After my grandfather died, she opened up more and more about his final years, stories from the past, and our family history. I have treasured our talks and all that I’ve learned from her. She shared her writing with me, and told me that I should use it to write a book—not a book that anyone would read by her estimation, but a book that would be a way to share family stories. As she has continued to age and dementia has begun to take over, her stories have taken on more nostalgia. Less tied to reality and more tied to relationships and emotions, I have gotten to know so much more about the dynamics of that part of my family.

My goal in the past several years has been to visit her once a month—first to provide some respite when she was living with my mother and then to just stay connected because I know that our days together are growing shorter in number. Each time we’re together, I ask her to take a selfie with me. I always have to remind her what a selfie is and sometimes are better than others in getting her to comply. The pictures I take are for me, so I can remember our time together, knowing that she remembers me in such a different way now. I have been honored to sit by her bedside when she has been in the hospital a number of times in the past couple of years, thankful that I can provide comfort when she is confused and scared and not understanding why she is there. I have become the fierce advocate she has always been for me.

I’m looking forward to sharing more stories about her—life lessons and rambling from Grandmom—in the coming days.

Thanks for reading! 😊 EW