Cyril, Harry and Hubert were the names of her young sons. They were all under the age of 10 when Grandpa Will died. Grandma worked many jobs to keep her young family together. I remember her telling stories of having to plow fields, chop wood and to hunt after her husband died. Her main job was as a midwife and nurse for people who lived in the country close to her. She was on call day and night. Many babies were delivered by Grandma Poe. The money she received, if she was paid at all, was usually in barter. This was the way of life then. I believe it made her the strong woman she needed to be, enabling her to do everything required to keep her family together.
Eventually, the boys grew up. Harry, the middle son, was my grandfather. He owned a trucking company, 'H. Poe and Son,' Uncle Cyril, the oldest son, drove a bus and Uncle Hubert, the youngest son, was murdered when he was 22 years old.
One of the main things I admired about her was her ability to tell a story. Grandma had a way with words. She made her life seem like an adventure. I don't remember her complaining about her life. She was proud of the things she had survived. I liked that. I also liked the the fact that in 1960 she could still ride a bike. She never learned to drive a car, but she could ride that bike. To me that was impressive. Of course, I was only 9 or 10 years old and she was in her 80's. I hope I can ride a bike in my 80's and smile.
Grandma lived in one large room in a boarding house on North Washington Street, close to the Jewell Hotel, bordered on one side by a battered creek that flowed adjacent to her small yard. I enjoyed playing in her creek. I would go visit her often. There was a swing on the front porch for the tenants to enjoy.
Grandma lived like no one else I knew....and I loved it. Her room was large: the wallpaper was covered in dingy roses that had long since lost their blossom appeal. She had two windows close to six feet tall located on the street side of the house over looking Hwy. 51. It was the only highway to run through Clinton, Ky.
On her floor was a huge area rug made by Grandma. She saved old clothes and made rag rugs out of them. I loved to watch her make a rug. She taught me how to braid and weave these rugs, but I am not sure I remember exactly what to do. It was a long time ago. At the time we were making rugs I was 9 years old. I thought Grandma's one room home was magical.
There was a wooden rocking chair placed close to one of the windows. Across from the rocker was a coal stove. It was small, black and kept her room warm in winter. A big fan sat in the other window during the summer time and usually kept a breeze flowing in and out the windows.
Grandma kept her canned goods under her wrought iron bed. It was my job to retrieve these goodies from under her bed. I would crawl under the bed and drag out boxes of jars filled with the summer's surplus. I had to make sure the cans were still 'good'. I could pick out anything I wanted to eat. When I came to visit she always fixed me green beans with corn on the cob and fried cornbread. This memory is so strong, I can almost smell the green beans cooking.
Her bed was covered in homemade quilts, each quilt had a story. As we waited for the food to cook, she would tell me the story of the quilt she had on her bed at the time. I wish I had asked for one of her quilts after she died. I don't remember what happened to them. The quilts joined some other family member's memories.
Mamamae, Grandma and I spent many an afternoon sitting on Mamamae's front porch snapping beans and shelling peas. The two of them would can most of the summer. They would split all the canned goods evenly so everyone in the family had plenty to eat at any given time.
When Grandma cooked for me at her place, I would have to go out into the hall and get the water. The toilet was also located in the hallway. Rupert Johnson had a room on the second floor too. Mr. Johnson kept a close eye on my grandmother. He worked at the Hickman County Gazette setting type. Grandma kept him in canned goods. They shared many meals together. He kept me in paper. I would go to the Gazette and he would give me all sorts of paper. I am sure he is the reason I still buy little notebooks and pretty paper, whether I need it or not. I love the feel, texture and smell of paper.
Grandma always had a curtain around her sink. I loved that "look". She was the only one who did that. I didn't realize at the time but the reason she had the curtain was to hide the pots and pans. She had no cabinets. She made various curtains out of calico print. She changed the curtain often. I made doll clothes out of the old curtains. Grandma and Mamamae taught me how to sew. They owned a Singer Treadle sewing machine. It is still in the family.
Grandma would tell me stories of Grandaddy, Uncle Cyril and Uncle Hubert. As far as we know, Uncle Hubert was the only one in the family who was left handed except for me. She always told me I "got that from him". I could tell it made her proud. She also thought my eyes were shaped like his. He was the son who was murdered at a young age for being in the wrong place at the wrong time with a woman who was not his. That story always stuck in my mind....it still does.
After all these years I can still see touches of Grandma in my home. I don't think about her all that often but I have her in my house. I have never lived anywhere that I did not have a "curtain" somewhere in our various homes and apartments. For the past 10 years I have a curtain hanging over one of my kitchen cabinets. We took the door off the cabinet to make room for the curtain.
One of my favorite meals will always be garden fresh green beans with bacon and corn on the cob, fresh tomatoes, fried cornbread with butter and sweet tea. For dessert Mamamae and Grandma always made fried apple pies. Simple, good and memorable.
Thrown across my couch in the living room is a homemade quilt and I also have one in the den and on Jacy's bed. Each quilt tells a story also. It was the little things that made an impression on me. We didn't have much in the way of entertainment but we told and listened to stories. Family stories, to be passed on to other generations. Perhaps this is why I look for the story in almost everything I see. Stories can be found anywhere the imagination is allowed to roam. My imagination has free reign. I see stories in mud puddles, the clouds, rain on a window pane, in an old person's eyes. I see stories in my minds eye. Stories can be found in paintings and in soft, slow music, or music that rocks the house. I find myself open to what at times appears to be hidden. Occasionally, the story is only for me. I can live with that. Not everything needs to be told. Some things we enjoy simply because they exist.
Things are different now. If it isn't electronic or can't talk, write, sing and do various other things, it is of little interest to most children. It's a new age, a new century. The stories aren't as important as they used to be.
I still tell stories to my grandchildren all the time. I write a blog to help me remember these stories. I share it with the world. I have people who read my stories from Vietnam, Iraq, Russia and many other countries all over the world. I feel honored and blessed to share my life and my part of the world with friend's I have never met. I believe the stories will be important someday to decedents of our family. For me it is vital to remember the lives of people who touched our lives. We all have a story. Share your story with someone you love or with a stranger. I just did.
I love this, and the photo just makes it. This is her immortality.
ReplyDeleteThank you Liz. I like the era we grew up in. We have had the best of both worlds.
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