I was very close to my grandparents on my mother’s side. My Papa was Scots-Irish and my Nana was German. They were wonderful people, fun and full of life and love. I learned a lot from both of them. It’s a sad fact that as they grew older, I grew into a sullen teenager and by the time I finally grew out of that phase, they were both gone. But I have many happy memories, and much knowledge and wisdom from my grandfather that I will always cherish.
Sadly, the same cannot be said for my grandparents on my father’s side. My paternal grandfather was Welsh and my paternal grandmother was German. My mother said she was a witch and didn’t let me spend a lot of time with her when I was very little. Later, when we needed a place to stay because my father was busy being an unemployed musician, I was able to get to know them better. My Gramma had things to teach me, but my feelings for her were colored by my mother’s negative feelings. Believing that she was a witch, I didn’t accept a lot of what she tried to tell me about things. But I loved her just the same. I remember sitting with her at her old mahogony desk and playing Pinochle (she also called it Bezique). Sometimes when she was out shopping and I would go alone into her room and sit on the bed - I remember the richness of the coverlet and the way the sun would filter through the windows - and breathe in the scent of her powder and the many candles she kept. There was a massive dark dresser, and I knew it held many silk scarves and other rich fabrics and (to me) exotic things. I knew this because I’d see them when she would open the drawers to search for playing cards or gloves when she was going out. My Gramma wore a hat and gloves when she went out. I never knew anyone else who did that.
My Grampy was like a bent old tree. He loved his big wild garden in back of the house and even had a little fish pond with one old goldfish in it. There was an apple tree that had a crabapple branch grafted onto it. He had done the grafting himself many years before. I remember thinking it was a magic tree because it bore two different kinds of apples. Even after he explained to me how it was done I still thought it was magic - only that the magic must have come from him. There were other trees and mint growing everywhere. There were sweetpeas, melons, tomatoes and cucumbers. There were roses, marigolds and pansies. There was garlic in the very back of the yard. He would pull it, knock the dirt off it and take it into the house whenever my Gramma needed it. He helped me to plant and grow tomatoes, and taught me some things about gardening. I think I may have got my deep love of trees, plants and flowers from him.
A combination of bitterness between my mom and them (mainly because of the poor relationship she had with my father), kept a distance between us. I regret that I never got to know them both better. I have tons of memories and stories about my maternal grandparents, but this is just about all I can remember of my Grampy and Gramma. They are both gone now, too. Long gone, long-lived and sadly missed. I was not around when they passed, and I was not able to attend either of their funerals. I was able to visit their graves and leave some flowers before I left California, but I have no photos or momentos from either of them. Only these spare memories - mementos in my mind and heart. But these are treasures I cannot lose, even if they are all I have.
What a wonderful post! I never got to know my grandparents. My maternal grandmother died in Brazil when I was 9 days old, so I never got to meet her, but I did meet my maternal grandfather. My family traveled to Brazil when I was 7. What I saw when I met my grandfather was a stooped frail old man with dark weathered skin and arthritic hands that had seen much manual labor. He was living with my aunt at the time since he was unable to live on his own. I remember being unsure of him at first since he was the first real “old person†I had ever been exposed to. I found it strange that he was my grandfather and yet I didn’t know him. What I discovered, I cherish to this day. He exuded warmth and love and had a playful twinkle in his eye that made him look like he was privy to some grand cosmic secret. Indeed, I believe in fact, that he was! He was always surrounded by children, including my brother and me, and I just remember feeling so calm and content in his presence. Even back then I was an anxious worry wart, but I never felt that way around my grandfather. He had been a jack of all trades in his day, farming and metal-working, but mainly, he and my grandmother were healers. People would come from all over to be blessed and for their herbal remedies, and my mother speaks of them fondly.
My paternal grandfather died in Madeira when my dad was 18. All I know was that he was a hard man and my dad mentions his name with fear and respect. My paternal grandmother died when my father was 9, and he never talks about her. My grandfather remarried within a year. I can’t imagine how hard it was to lose a mother at such a young age, so as much as I want to know about them, I respect my father’s wishes. From what I do know about my grandmother, her short life wasn’t a happy one. I met my step-grandmother (or is it grand stepmother?) on a family trip to Madeira when I was 11. She was still living in the stone house that my father grew up in. The first time I ever saw my father cry was when he walked into that 2 room dark stone house after having been away for 16 years. I saw my father as a little boy then, I saw him as human, and I cried with him. She was totally self-sufficient up until her death, sometime in her 90s. She refused modern conveniences. Her house had no electricity or running water. She raised and butchered her own pigs, chickens, and rabbits, grew all her own vegetables, and baked her own bread. I can still recall the sweet taste of roast pork, sweet potatoes, and freshly baked corn bread. Nothing ever tasted so good! Everything was cooked over an open fire in a brick oven. I remember that she had that same twinkle in the eye that my mother’s father had, a fire and zest for life that never went out even though life got tough. If anything, life’s difficulties only made that fire burn ever brighter!
WOW! I never meant for this to be so long, but your post got me thinking. Thank you for that! I haven’t thought about where I came from for a long time. Our ancestors should never be forgotten. They have a great deal to teach us, if we only listen..
Cindy, thank you so much for sharing your memories. In this way our ancestors live on in us and through us.
As I read both of these blogs I was brought back to memories of my grandparents. In particular, I found myself thinking of my German Nana, Anita.
She was my paternal great-grandmother and was the most cherished person in my father’s life. I was nine years old when she died at 92 years young; she was definitely young at heart! I am now 35 and her passing still marks the only time I have ever seen my Dad cry.
Nana was born in Germany and was in elementary school when Hitler was first rising to power. She would tell stories of Hitler coming to her school as a child trying to teach the children of the importance of Nazi power. Sadly, her family’s farm was burnt down by the Nazi’s when they refused to assist in the war efforts. The family took on a French name to see them safely to America.
My Nana was a marvelous cook and quickly found a job as the head chef of a wealthy estate located in a Boston suburb. She never had to open a cookbook as she had the ability to remember a recipe after preparing it just one time.
My Dad loved her for incredible strength and love of life. She lived with my Dad and his five siblings for a while to assist my grandmother with an abusive alcoholic husband. My Dad actually laughs now when he recalls the time Nana knocked out my grandfather with a frying pan when he was in one of his drunken rages. My Dad says that she raised him. His poor mother was as much a victim of abuse as the children.
As a child I can remember visiting with her. I was the oldest so I have more memories of her than either my brother or sister. She had this great big English sheep dog that would knock you down with his excitement. But, he always behaved for my Nana. My Dad tells me that she had special connection with animals.
My fondest memory of Nana was the time she snuck cookies to me and my siblings. My Dad was fitting a window with an air conditioner and left us alone with Nana. The cookies were great!!!
These days my Dad still thinks of Nana and talks about her often. He says that I remind him a lot of her with my love for animals, sharp memory, and faithful heart.
I could never ask for a more meaningful compliment. I only hope I can live up to the challenge………..
Kim, thank you for this. It’s great to share these memories of our ancestors. I feel it gives us strength to remember them, remember who they were and how they contributed to our lives.