THE STORIES
Upon opening
my grandparents’ diaries,
Kept from 1903-1979
Kept from 1903-1979
As I open Nana’s
diaries I think of the woman I knew when I was little. I knew Nana as a teacher. She was a serious, disciplined woman who
always wanted me to do my best: to learn
all I could, to do what I should do.
Should. What power that word can hold! I can still hear Nana’s voice: “You should practice your piano”; “You
should drink your prune juice.” (Prune
juice--that goopy stuff in the dreaded green bottle.) Don’t get me wrong, I had fun with Nana as
well, but I always knew when I was with her I should stand up tall and do the best
I could. I always knew that I was
learning something - or should be - when I spent time with Nana.
And now as I
open the diaries that Nana wrote starting when she was 9 years old, I am
reading the words of a little girl whom I never knew, one who grew up on a
dairy farm in Vermont at the turn of the twentieth century. This was the little girl who pulled molasses
candy, who made sugar on snow with her family, who went to singing school, and
who went “May-flowering” with her little sister. She was the young daughter who swept the chambers,
learned to rake, helped to churn butter, played carom, and bought a doll’s head
on an excursion into town with her Papa.
This was the
young lady who was invited to the neighbors’ with her sister to play cards and
have tea; who had horses named Mag, Nancy and Pete; who watched the “menfolk”
roll the roads in the winter; and who went to “S.S.” (Sunday School) with her Mama
and her sister. She was an animal lover
and farmer’s daughter who set eggs and raised chickens; who had a dog named Bouncer that followed her
and her Mama to church one day and didn’t come home; and who watched a family
friend pull the porcupine quills out of Bouncer’s mouth years later. She was the young schoolgirl taught by her
big brother in a one-room schoolhouse with 11 other “scholars”. She went to school picnics and took music
lessons.
This was the
young woman who bought a Kodak and learned to develop pictures; who attended
Grange meetings, “sociables” and dances (and “danced every set!”) She learned how to make a “waist”, did her
“fancy work”, and went skating with the girls.
She belonged to a marching team and a touring dramatics club. When she toured with her dramatics club to
other towns, she would return home in the early morning hours because it took
so long to travel.
As time went
on, she passed the examinations for the Normal School and, at the age of
fifteen, went to live in Randolph Center with her roommate, Gail. And she was very homesick when she was
there--until Ralph, my grandfather, started to visit her….
I never knew
this girl. I knew the woman she became,
but only briefly. When I was very young Nana
started having strokes. They called it
“hardening of the arteries”. I watched
Grandpa care for her for years. She
would sputter and snap at him, probably out of frustration at not being able to
say what she was trying to say or move like she wanted to move. As I watched my grandparents, I just knew
that Grandpa would always take care of her.
That’s just the way it was. There
was something there much deeper that what could be seen on the surface.
After Nana
passed, Grandpa told me how lonely he was even though he lived with us. He explained that there was no one around who
knew the old stories. That’s when he
shared a story with me. I remember the
picture he painted with his words.
During their courtship in Vermont, Grandpa
and Nana used to go for sleigh rides on Sunday afternoons. When Grandpa spoke, I could see my
grandparents as a young couple, their sleigh skimming over the brilliant white
snow, the sun radiant in the blue winter sky. Even now I am there in time watching them – so
many years after the story was told. I can hear the bells on Mag’s harness; I feel
the cold air on my face as she trots past me and on through the woods. I hear more bells in the distance; another
couple is out for a sleigh ride this perfect Sunday afternoon. I see the two sleighs pass; my grandparents
laugh and wave to their neighbors and continue on their way.
I remember
this story told so many years ago and I cherish it, knowing that it is part of
me. I’m reading these diaries. I want to know the stories.
