A Woman of Strength and Courage....

          It seems that once my tick transitioned to the elderly slot on most forms, I quite naturally fell into the almost daily habit of musing.  Now don't accuse me of living my life in the past--I'd prefer thinking of it as visiting my memory mode.  I think many of us--as children and grandchildren come along--like to find resemblances, habits, and forms of speech that help us recall those in our past.     

         My grandmother was 64 years old when I remember first meeting her--I was just five.  At that first meeting I was shy--actually a bit frightened.   Yet these many years later, I easily recognize her as having the greatest influence in whom I have become.  It is also clear we are very different on many levels.

         My grandmother grew up a princess in her young world--with older brothers and a doting father.   Tall for a woman of 1800’s birth.   Plain in appearance.  Hoping to create a soft curl or turn to her white, lifeless, scraggly hair, she sometimes allowed me to wrap her thin strands in rags--long before cushy rollers came into fashion.    Her old house dresses were without enough good thread to start a fire--the hausfrau look of her German origin.  Most of her facial expressions included a degree of frown that left little doubt as to her opinion.  

A woman of endless strength and energy.  No one—certainly not her sons and husband—ever questioned her authority.  She decided what grain to buy for the cattle; whose bull to borrow for each year’s fertilization; what crop to harvest in what field; what vegetables to plant in the garden each spring; how many hundreds of quarts to preserve each summer; and what dishes to prepare for each meal.
 

          A concrete thinker, demanding structure--without smiles or laughter, without hugs and kisses--"Come here, it's time to read,"  made clear the activity ahead.    Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women came into my life to stay.  And Little Orphan Annie’s Came to Our House to Stay by James Whitcomb Riley  was never read with more energy.  I memorized Come Little Leaves by George Cooper at an early age--not with words of praise, but a simple "OK, repeat it again."

            My grandparents’ farm was situated in the hilly, south central part of Ohio, surrounded by hundreds of acres of government land, and my grandmother and I walked it all—identifying plants, finding animals and eating berries.  Those times were also taken up with stories of her childhood; of her black mammy in Knoxville, Tennessee; of “never reading a book until my father first read it” in a voice that said “and that’s the way it should always be.”  My grandmother rarely allowed a softer side to emerge--my need for a gentler grandparent came through my grandfather.

            We also trekked to Prince’s Park, located on the farm and named for a thoroughbred horse, whose ownership Grandma claimed and no one questioned.  Prince’s tongue slithered down into Grandma’s thin apron pockets to find his sugar cubes.  During these exchanges, Grandma’s sweeter side exposed itself to sunlight.
 

            One memory that stands out above all was an afternoon in the haymow of their large milking barn.  In dusty, old trunks were Aunt Mildred’s belongings—books, school papers, dresses and even a hair brush.  There my young heart bore witness to Grandma’s tenderness flowing down her cheeks.  Aunt Mildred died at age 11 of the plague that swept through in 1918.  Grandma held Aunt Mildred’s clothes, gently touching the age-worn fabric, as she told me stories of this precious, now sainted, daughter.
 

            Sitting at the kitchen table, eating my breakfast cereal—never eggs--“they are for the men!”—I heard more stories.  For someone I never knew to attend church, she was quite the authority on religion—at least the part that condemned the Catholics.  This was difficult to hear because my Mother was from a large Catholic family with several cousins who were priests and nuns.  These experiences at the kitchen table helped me, years later, understand prejudice and discrimination at a deeply personal level.
 

            Yet with all of this, I adored my grandmother--though I don't believe I understood this woman of contrasts until I had some maturity under my belt.
 

            Grandma lived in an era when women had little say-so.  I don’t remember her ever making a political statement.  But no one ever questioned who was head of state in her home!
 

            Grandma's education didn't go beyond high school, but she could have taught literature in the best of universities.  She grew up in cities but knew as much about wild flowers and plants as any botanist.
 

            She sewed and, in the end, taught her Irish, Catholic, daughter-in-law, my mother, to sew as well. 
 

            Having the privilege of being her first granddaughter, I was also named after her beloved Mildred.  And I think it was that status that allowed me to hear the stories of this cherished daughter and to see her tears.
 

            Yes, a complicated woman, born during difficult times for women.   And while I truly hope I hold to a softer side, I am grateful for such a strong and courageous influence in my life.