All stories from my mother’s childhood center around the house on Eagle Street. The house was just outside of town in the early 40s when my grandfather, a carpenter (died a few months before I before I was born), rescued it from its former life as a public tavern (with small rooms in the basement where a gentlemen could pay for the company of a lady), and turned it into a single family home. After the GIs came home and re-visited old haunts, the family was woken up late in the night frequently enough that my grandmother would just leave the butcher knife out on the large kitchen table, the better to run them off. It was sort of a reverse Three Little Pigs: after huffing and puffing and blowing the door down, they got run out by Mama Bear.
Several years after my grandfather died my grandmother, with her youngest daughter still at home, moved into a 1st floor flat of a 2-story house, where all the family gatherings of my childhood took place. She and all of her daughters (5), including my mother, had well-trained voices. She also played the organ very well and had one in her front room that we’d gather around and have sing-a-longs. I remember watching her with both hands and both feet going full blast, in walks one of my older cousins (brother?) with a girlfriend. She yells, “Hi, I’m Grandma” and goes back to the song without missing a beat.
The picture above was from a trip home in 2006 where Mom and I took a break from Thanksgiving with my brothers and went to see her. She was happy and alert, just a little hard of hearing. She mentioned dreaming about my grandfather every night. She had only occasionally mentioned him over the years, saying how proud he’d be of his family.
My mother’s voice was understandably a little shaky when she left me the message last night that Grandma had passed. But I’m finding it hard to be too sad. She missed her husband for over 47 years and now she’s back in his arms.
