My Grandmother's Ghost

My mother saw her own mother’s ghost. I think that is why Mom was reluctant to speak of her mother. Grandma (Veronica from my post Enduring Love) died in November 1950. Mom was pregnant with me, about a year later, when she woke up in the middle of the night to see her mother standing in the doorway of the room. Veronica had on her favorite blue coat, and her ribbon hat (apparently a popular style of the late 1940’s). She was trying hard to communicate with Mom. Although her lips were moving and she was urgently trying to speak, Mom could not hear what Veronica was trying to say. She sat up in bed, leaned forward and said “What?” to her mother. At that point my father woke up and the apparition disappeared. 

Many years later (in the late 1980’s), I went to a Spiritualist church for an adventurous night out with a group of friends.  I am not a member of that church (or any church), but sometimes my friends and I would go to a meeting or two at the Spiritualist church each summer. Like many locals we would go for the fun of it when the church hosted open "spirit readings" for non-members. They were good at it, too; very spooky stuff.

In preparation, I concentrated hard all day on asking my dead grandmother to send me a message telling me what she had been trying to tell my Mom that night so long ago. It must have worked, because later that night the Spiritualist minister pointed me out in the crowd and told me that there was a grandmotherly spirit standing right behind me. He said the spirit wanted to give me her message herself rather than relate it through the psychic preacher. He instructed me to concentrate and meditate over the course of the next few weeks so that the “materialization” could take place. "Holy shit," I thought.

He must have seen the look of terror in my eyes, because he took great pains to reassure me there was nothing to be afraid of. Yeah, right. I was absolutely terrified at the thought of seeing a ghost. I thought, “OK, no problem – I won’t concentrate, I won’t meditate, and then nothing will happen.” I only wanted a freakin' message, I did NOT want to see a ghost.

I'm a big chicken about things that go bump in the night. Like a little kid, I was too afraid to sleep. I dozed fitfully, sparingly, and nervously for the next 2 nights. I was afraid to close my eyes because of what I might dream, and afraid to open my eyes because of what I might see! It's funny now, looking back on it. However, I was sincerely scared at the time.

By the third night I was exhausted. I fell deeply and peacefully asleep. I dreamed of my maternal grandmother. I clearly remember seeing her in that dream, and I know she took a long time to tell me many things. When I woke up I could not for the life of me remember anything she said, except for one message I was to give to my mother. She told me to tell my mother not to let her feelings get hurt so easily. 

I called to convey the message to my mother.  She seemed surprised and shocked with what I called to tell her, but she didn’t say much. It was a short phone call. Later I discovered that she had been fighting with her sisters for weeks because she had taken offense at something one of them had said to her, and she was nursing a serious case of hurt feelings.

I wonder if this is the ribbon hat?

New York City with my girls

What a great time, 3 generations of women together in NYC. Sure, there was squabbling and snark; however, those inevitable moments sparked by lack of privacy were overshadowed by the love we felt and the fun we had.

We flew from Orlando to Newark, NJ, then took a hotel shuttle to Manhattan via the Lincoln Tunnel. The 3-day musical theatre workshop (acting, singing, dancing) was staged by Broadway Artist Alliance, housed in the heart of the Theatre District. The hotel was conveniently a block away.

E's workshop started each morning at 9:30. M&E sleep until the last minute (trusting the world again). I wake up at the crack of dawn. I did NOT want to be around when they woke up late and crashed around the hotel room. I slipped out and went down to the lobby to drink lots of coffee and read an actual newspaper. Oh yeah, there were BAGELS. The real deal. I was in heaven.

The workshop didn't end until 7:00 p.m., leaving M and me free to roam, shop, eat, and talk each day. I loved spending time alone with her. It was also a long school holiday weekend, so crowds on the street were fierce. I walked fast, weaving and bobbing like a prizefighter. Or maybe more like a drunken sailor on leave, desperate to keep up?

Space is a prime commodity on an island. Stores in the City are narrow and multi-floored with people everywhere, even grocery and drug stores. It seemed odd to take an elevator to get to the sinus meds in Walgreens. Buildings are unique and details a joy, especially on the oldest, funkiest buildings. I had a good time just looking at things.

We went to a NY style pizzeria and devoured a fabulously greasy pepperoni and black olive pizza! The crust was perfect. I'm happy to report Florida pizza will never satisfy my granddaughter again.

Homeless people begging on the streets are heartbreaking. I imagine native New Yorkers become desensitized, but it hurt my heart. One young man was lying next to a building covered with a dirty blanket. He was clearly sick or high, his eyes glazed. He never looked up, even when I put money in his cardboard box and he muttered a weak "Thank you." He is someone's child. I wanted to hold him in my arms and call him honey. I wanted to tell him everything will be okay, even though I know it won't. I wonder if his parents know where he is? I hope not.

Me, capturing something "important" while M screamed at me to get out of the street

Enduring Love

My maternal grandmother was Veronica, born in Chicago in 1892, and died in Lake Co., Indiana (IN) in 1950. Veronica had 13 children with William, but only 10 lived to adulthood. My aunts said she was very “organized.” What might they have meant with that word? I imagine she would have had to be organized (and strict) to manage all those children. Grandpa was a railroad worker and Grandma supplemented the family income by baking pies for local restaurants. The family lived in a community settled in the mid-19th century by German immigrants. They spoke German in the home until WWI, when Grandma forbade it lest the locals think them unpatriotic. 

Veronica was a carrier of a genetic disease, X-ALD (Adrenaleukodystrophy). I wrote about it a while back if you are interested in weird genetic diseases. 

From what I hear, Veronica was “da boss” in that family. Since her own father drank a bit too much, my grandmother did not allow Grandpa to drink beer in the house. If he wanted a beer he had to go sit on the back porch to drink it. In another story, she was making apple pies in the kitchen and was annoyed by two of her teenage daughters who were loudly arguing in the dining room.  She picked up an apple and threw it at one of my aunts, hitting her in the head. It stopped the fight. I'm sorry. I know that's extreme, but I'm a sucker for physical humor. It makes me laugh.

I can't help but admire her, although I suspect she was feared as much as loved. A woman like that? Well, her life would have been very different if she had been born in 1950 instead of dying in that year. My aunts spoke well of her. Her youngest daughter (#12 of 13, who was only 16 when Veronica died) adored her. My own mother (#8 of 13), never spoke of her. If pushed she would only say, “I loved my mother.” That was it. Perhaps my mother was afraid to talk about her because Veronica's ghost visited my mother one dark night. That will have to wait for another post.

William and Veronica, married 1910

Veronica’s mother was Catherine, born 1869 in Lake Co., IN and died there in 1935. She and Frank had 7 children. Only three lived to marry and have children. Her father died when she was a year old, and her mother died when she was ten. She and her siblings were raised by their stepfather and his second wife. 

Catherine was a sweet, kindly woman with a gregarious husband. Her oldest son’s wife died leaving him with three daughters to raise. Great Uncle Harry moved back in with his parents so his mother, Catherine, could raise those girls. I met one of the girls (my mother’s first cousin, Dorothy). She told me how loving her Grandmother Catherine was. Dorothy said firmly and with great pride: “It couldn’t have been easy to take on three children at her age, but she did!” I was proud of Great Grandma then, too, and awed by the strength of her love. She also said that when Grandpa (Frank) was being demanding, Grandma (Catherine) would whisper to Dorothy “He thinks he’s the crowned head!” 

Frank and Catherine, married 1887

Catherine’s mother was Susanna, born 1848 at Lake Co., IN. Susanna had three children with first husband, Anton, a German immigrant and school teacher. They married in 1866. He died in 1870 from the adult variant of X-ALD. She had 4 more children with her second husband, Peter, and died in childbirth at age 31 in 1879. Peter raised all her children. He remarried and had 10 more children with his second wife.

I have a soft spot for Susanna. She died young, suffered the loss of her first husband, and left so many young, dependent children when she died. She is buried in the same cemetery as her second husband, not the same as her first. That kind of bothers me, especially since the second husband is buried next to his second wife, not her. Intellectually I understand, but it still bothers me. She is mine. I like to imagine Anton was the love of her life and they are separated unfairly for eternity. This is how family rumors start. 

I was told the following photo is of Susanna, although this woman looks older than 31. However, she also looks exactly like my mother. Let's believe it really is her, okay?

Susanna (1848-1879)

Susanna’s mother was Catharina, born in a small village in the Saarland region of Germany in 1814. The Saarland was batted back and forth between France and Germany for centuries, and it seems to have been part of France in 1814 when Catharina was born. However, she spoke and identified as German when she arrived in the U.S. in 1843. She and Johann had 10 children, and she died in Lake Co., Indiana in 1886.

Catharina’s mother was Angelique (Angela), born 1784 in Germany. She arrived in the U.S. in 1843, and she died in 1859 in Lake Co., Indiana. Angela and Mathias had 6 children.

Angela’s mother was Margaretha, born 1763 in Germany, died there in 1804. She had 11 children with Michael. Four died in childhood, four immigrated to Indiana.

Margaretha’s mother was Maria, born about 1730 in Germany where she died in 1768. She married Lukas. 

I wish I knew all their stories. Thank you Sabine, for encouraging me to "bring it on." Obviously this is inspired by your recent post about your grandmother.

Remember the ladies

Yesterday I considered staying in bed all day with the covers pulled over my head. Considering the mood I was in, it probably would have been for the best. However, life is meant to be lived, adversity overcome, and these damn moods really MUST be tamed! This is the stuff of life. Who am I to surrender?

Instead, I will follow the the directive of Abigail Adams. In her March 31, 1776 letter to her husband, John Adams she asked him to "remember the ladies" when helping to build a code of laws for what what they hoped would become a new, independent nation dedicated to liberty and justice for all.

Today I remember the ladies on just one branch of my family. This is not my distaff line, although I could do that. Instead, I am thinking of my paternal grandpa's mother. Let us consider the lives of women in her line as a long, multi-generational Women's March for equality and respect. In honoring them, I also honor all the brave women marching on Washington, D.C. and other cities.

Here is my great grandmother, Emma Frost. She was born in Wayne Co., Kentucky in 1881, and died there in 1963. She and her husband (her second cousin) were tobacco farmers who also operated a small grocery store in their house. Emma and her husband had 12 children.

Emma

Emma's mother was Ellen Ramsey (1857-1938), also from Wayne Co., Kentucky. Ellen was a farm woman who outlived two husbands, had 5 children with the first and 6 children with the second. Ellen Ramsey looked like this:

Ellen

  
Ellen's mother was Sarah "Sally" Rector (1814-1905). Another farm woman! Sally is my 3rd great grandmother through Emma's side, but she is also my 3rd great aunt through Emma's husband's side. Ha! I need a chart to figure these things out. Sally and her husband had 10 children.

Sally

 


Sally's mother was Rutha Simpson. Rutha was born in Pendleton Co., South Carolina in 1790. Her family moved to Rowan Co., North Carolina when she was young, but by 1806 they were living in Wayne Co., Kentucky. Rutha's father was an officer in the Royalist army during the War for Independence, so they had to keep moving after the British lost. They were not welcome in most communities. Rutha, however, married a son of a Revolutionary War soldier who fought at the battle of Yorktown, when General Cornwallis surrendered to George Washington. That must have made for interesting dinner conversations around the farmhouse table after all the chores were done. Rutha and her husband had nine children.

Rutha (from a painting on a commemorative plate)

Rutha's mother was Sarah Sherrill (b. 1746, Virginia; d. 1826 Kentucky). The Sherrill's are historical figures and old settlers. Her grandfather, William Sherrill, was born about 1670 in Devon, England. He arrived in Maryland about 1686 as a bonded passenger. In time, he became a fur trader and a well known Indian guide in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He is also sometimes referred to as "The Conestoga Fur Trader." Sarah was a year old when she and her family left Augusta, Virginia to become the first Europeans to settle on the west side of the Catawba River in North Carolina. Sarah and her husband had as many as 13 children.

Sarah's mother was Agnes White. Agnes was born in Virginia in 1726 and was part of the pioneer North Carolina family referenced above. She died at Sherrill's Ford, North Carolina in 1795. Agnes White and William Sherrill had as many as 14 children, many dying young.

Agnes' mother was likely Mary "Polly" Campbell, born in Ulster, Ireland in 1686.  She married Duncan White, and she died in Lancaster, Pennsylvania in 1728. 

Polly's mother was possibly Mary McCoy, born in Scotland about 1650, married Moses White, and died in Ulster, Ireland about 1689. 

I honor these women today, with all my heart. They are only one branch of women who came before me. In the wheel of life that represents ancestry, there are so many others. 

And THEN she told Mom when to die

The Baby Sister Chronicles: Part II 😎

My mother's Parkinson's Disease continued to progress. A couple years after the delirium incident she moved to an assisted living facility for a few more years. It was only in her last year she was bedridden and confined to a nursing home. Despite having a husband, 3 children, and a full time job, Baby Sister went to see her every single day, advocating and watching out for Mom. As you can imagine, they formed a special bond.

In late February 2015, Mom had a massive stroke rendering her more or less unresponsive. I had overnight duty at the nursing home for much of the last week Mom was actively dying. On the morning of the 7th day a favorite nurse came in to check Mom's vital signs. After a few moments the nurse said to me with great tenderness and liquid eyes, "Today is the day; she doesn't have much longer." I called the usual suspects and let them know to come right away. Sister C was the first to arrive. Big D was next. Baby Sister was at work and arrived later than the others. She was kind of dragging her feet! I have anxiety issues and I was afraid she would arrive too late. I repeatedly texted her to get her rear in gear. Baby Sister calmly and firmly insisted there was time. Why do I ever doubt her?

I was not sure if Mom could hear, but I kept telling her Baby Sister would be there soon. When Baby Sister arrived she went straight to the bed, kissed our mother three times on the forehead and said "Ma, we all love you so much, but now it's time to go to sleep." Within 15 minutes Mom took her last breath. 

Baby Sister is getting kind of embarrassed with all the attention, so I need to stop writing about her for a while.  However, I am only lying low and biding my time. This won't be the last you will hear about her.

To my followers - sorry for all the versions of this. 

Nutty as a Fruitcake

I made fruitcake for the holidays. I know – Ick.  Many people hate it. I like my mother’s dark fruitcake recipe, which I make without the icky stuff she put in her version. I use dates, dried apricots, raisins and walnuts. No red or green candied cherries! As a result, I feel disgustingly superior and virtuous.

Only my daughter and I will eat fruitcake these days. I could easily skip it, but this is my first Christmas since Mom died. I miss her and I really wanted to make it. It will make my daughter happy. Maybe I can talk my granddaughter into trying it? Stranger things have happened.

Mom made fruitcake every Christmas I can remember until the slow progression of that hateful Parkinson’s Disease made it impossible for her to bake. Then I started making the Christmas fruitcake. I would send her one in the mail, just like she used to to do for me after I got married and moved far away. They weigh a ton, so the postage probably cost more than the ingredients; but it was my special gift to her. I felt I was honoring her in the making of it, and I knew she liked that I was carrying on her tradition. As a mother and a grandmother I understand that now.

Food-related holiday traditions are the legacy of the common woman. As long as someone is still making our recipes we have achieved some form of immortality.

Of course, as a daughter (or son), you have to make these things a little different than your mother did. We must put our own spin on it to reflect our uniqueness, our modernity, our necessary and never-ending rebellion. Who among us actually wants to BE their mother? Not many.  We adjust and tweak to insure we are different. How much we have to tweak depends on who our mothers were.

I must confess that I stopped making them a few years ago, in 2012 - that fateful year when the fruitcakes I made went moldy. It made me so mad, that mold.  I threw a big, stinkin’ fit and stopped making the effort in subsequent years.  I guess I showed them! Now I regret that and so many other things. I was not the best daughter I could have been.

I cannot go back and make my mother a fruitcake for 2013 and 2014. Instead, I made a memorial fruitcake in 2015. I am storing it in the fridge because in Florida I do not have a cool basement, or any basement for that matter. I am going wild with the brandy. If it gets moldy I am going to throw it out without saying a word. I am keeping my anger in check. This is now a ritual, a sacrifice, an act of love. From here on in it is the making of fruitcake that is important, not the eating of it.    

It occurs to me that she may not have liked my version of the fruitcake. As I shamelessly bragged above, my version does not include candied green and red cherries, and who knows what other carcinogenic or candied crap she used to put in her version. She never believed those things could be bad for you. She liked the bad stuff, my Mom. It used to drive me crazy.

She definitely did not soak her cheesecloth in brandy. She used apple juice and wrapped the cakes in muslin. I am quite sure she also liked thinking that her fruitcake was better than mine. And, of course, it was. To be completely honest I miss the red candied cherries. I probably should not admit it or the thought police might come and haul me away. Out of sheer orneriness, let me say it loud and proud: the red candied cherries were my favorite part. I was a fool for not realizing that earlier. Next year I will put them back in.

I just realized that instead of giving her the fruitcake she wanted, I gave her the fruitcake I thought she should have. Aaaack! It is a good thing she loved me, because I can be insufferable.

Mothers understand these things, though. At least I do when my daughter now makes many of "my" Christmas cookies just a little bit different than I did. To become our grown-up selves we must separate from our mothers.

I am beginning to understand why a mother will always love her children more than her children will love her. Otherwise, none of us would ever leave her and no one would ever grow up.  It is as it should be.

My Mother's Daughter

About 15 years ago my mother moved from the family home to a small apartment. She made the change a few years after my father died.  For over 35 years she lived in the old barn-like house that 6 of my parents’ 7 children at least partially grew up in.  Of course it was not a barn, but it resembled one so I will henceforth refer to it as the Barn House.

There was 20 years between my oldest sister, CHD, and my youngest brother, WW. CHD was grown up when we moved into the Barn House.  She only lived there for a couple of months before she found an apartment and got on with her adult life. I must have been about 12 when we moved in.  I was in 7th grade.  There was a lot of living that made THAT old house a home!  At first there were only five children living there, because CHD had moved out in 1965.   Good Catholic that she was, my mother was soon pregnant again and we had a sixth child living with us (the 7^th sibling) in the Barn House by 1966.  In The Borg society, I am referred to as 3 of 7.

When Mom made the decision to move, I went to Northern Indiana to assist my siblings in paring down her belongings.   The goal was to keep only the “essentials” enabling her to fit into a one-bedroom apartment.  My sweet mother is a fully realized pack rat.  She saves everything because everything is on her “essentials” list.  It was always chaos in that house, but after 35 years the Barn House was jam-packed with memories and odd treasures.  Old pictures were in every drawer, and filled old purses and boxes tucked away in the back of her closets.  Cookbooks were stuffed with additional handwritten recipes.  Her bibles, St. Joseph Missal (Latin/English) and post Vatican II missal (English only) were chock full of genealogical goldmines in the form of funeral cards and obituary clippings.  She saved every saint medal, holy card, rosary, ceramic Blessed Virgin Mary statue, and wall crucifix her kids and grandkids ever gave her.  She has 7 children and 16 grandkids so that made for a lot of Catholic tchotchkes.  I do not know how many years worth of braided palm leaves we found.  For those of you who do not know, you get palm leaves when you go to mass on Palm Sunday.  You take them home, braid them and put them up in the house.  It is a Catholic thing.  I actually had one up on my bulletin board in the NYS house. Why not?  I threw it away last February before WE moved. Actually, I regret throwing that braided palm away.   What was I thinking?

It was fun wading through each room of my parents’ house one last time.  Of course I wanted to help my Mom and my siblings, but I must confess my primary purpose was to wallow in my mother’s things for the last time. I savored every drawer full of "stuff" and every room full of junk. That "stuff" was soul deep.  It was about my past.  It was about my parents’ life together.  It was about my mother’s neurosis. It was all a living testament to my mother’s strengths and weaknesses.  I wondered if our lives would change once her "stuff" was gone.  Interestingly, it was also about old time Roman Catholicism, the kind of mystical/devotional life every Catholic was taught to observe back before Vatican II modernized the church in the mid 1960’s. I have to stop before this post turns into my standard rant against Vatican II changes.  It always shocks people who mistakenly presume my normal liberal views would support saying the Mass in the vernacular.  That rant will have to wait for another post.

Unlike my more pragmatic siblings, I could not fault her when I found stacks of old church calendars in a corner of the kitchen.  These are calendars that each parish church gives out free to parishioners every year. The pictures of saints, the BVM, and her illustrious son were reason enough to keep them. They were beautiful.  There are many things one might fault the Roman Catholics for, but their art is not one of them.  For crying out loud, wouldn’t it be a venial sin to throw out things like that anyway?  OK, I threw them away when she was not looking, but still – I was so happy to get my grubby little hands on them for a few minutes. I stood firm in defending this collection, although I did kind of wonder why the pile was stacked on top of chocolate covered cherry boxes filled with old recipes and newspaper clippings that were stored underneath a chair pushed in a corner of the kitchen.  But then again, the opposite corner held a cart filled with old newspapers and magazines.  Maybe it was about balance, or a feng shui decision meant to increase the flow of favorable energy in the room?  I am willing to give the old lady the benefit of the doubt.  I love her madly and I find her quirkiness endearing. 

Believe it or not, I found a handwritten Pillsbury Flour Contest recipe submission that my maternal grandmother (who died before I was born…) submitted in the 1940s.  It was lying between two magazines in a pile of many.  I wish I knew how it got there.  If I had just picked up the entire pile of magazines and dumped them in the trash this recipe would have been lost forever.  Talk about treasure!  I probably slowed everyone down because I insisted on looking at every knickknack and perusing old recipes to my heart’s content.  I did not care, though.  On that day I imagined myself an archaeologist of sorts, and I am nothing if not self-indulgent.  It made the old lady happy, too.  She was thrilled that I valued her stuff.  I was having fun and I might even have been her favorite child for a few fleeting moments there.  When you are 3 of 7 you appreciate those fleeting moments.

I took pictures of rooms and furniture and piles of junk.  My younger siblings thought I was nuts.  They seemingly had no nostalgic feelings about the Barn House.  They just wanted to throw everything away so the house could be cleaned out, cleaned up and sold.   I was shocked and disturbed.  Why wasn’t I practical and focused?  Could it be that I am like my mother?  Oh, HELL no!

The best part was when three of us went through the linen closet with my Mom present.   She had a huge upstairs hallway closet with lacquered wooden doors that opened up like French doors.  This linen closet was wide enough that all four of us could stand and sort through the shelves at the same time.  We found many linens, very few of them useable.  There were old tablecloths with holes in or stains on them, sheets so threadbare you could see through them, and old towels and doilies that were tattered and torn.  Unfortunately, our sweet mother did not see them in the same way we did.  These things held different meanings for her.  She became agitated and defensive, not wanting to throw anything away.  Her standard response if we posed the question “Can we throw this away?” was “No, it is still good, someone could use that.”  She displayed classic Depression Era post-traumatic stress syndrome with subsequent hording behavior. It was amazing to observe at close hand. Her eyes were wild. She positioned herself behind us so she could see exactly what each one of us was doing.  She pulled things off the trash pile if we tried to sneak them there without asking her first.  We made four piles on the floor: the trash pile, the Goodwill pile, the give-to-a-family-member pile, and the keep-for-the-new-apartment pile.  I think you can imagine how much went on the trash pile. 

After 15 minutes our sweet mother could no longer stand the sight of us.  We took a break.  We three siblings conspired when Mom went to the bathroom (do not get me started on her bathroom…). We decided to reassure her by putting the unusable things she could not bear to throw away on the Goodwill pile and then throw things away when we took them away from her house.  We also agreed to “take” many things she wanted to pass on to family that in reality no family member would possibly want, and to quietly dispose of them accordingly.  Sorting into piles became easier for all of us.  She was happy, we were happy, and the job got done.

I came home from that visit with many amazing treasures:  An aluminum potato ricer I have absolutely no memory of, the tin French fry slicer that had intrigued me my entire childhood even though I do not make French fries, a heavy metal meat grinder I will almost certainly never use, the no-tech haircutting tools my grandmother used to cut our hair as children (giving us Mamie Eisenhower bangs in the 1950s).  I foolishly brought home two boxes filled with the inexpensive Currier and Ives-style china that my Mom had painstakingly purchased piece by piece at the grocery store.  I did not want them, but it made her so happy when I said I would take them.  I also had Mom’s old Singer sewing machine even though both my daughter and I already had new machines.  I took many funeral cards and all the Blessed Virgin Mary statues that I ever bought her, despite the fact that I have not been a Roman Catholic since 1968.  It made me happy to take these things, but I found it made me sad to have it all. I am happy T and I were able to get rid of so much “stuff” this past year in anticipation of our move to Florida. That is when I finally gave the potato ricer, the china, and the old sewing machine to the Salvation Army.  They were still good.  I am sure someone is using them.