Mamamae's Story Continued...

From the time Mamamae was 7 years old until she died almost 80 years later,  she thought she was responsible for the death of her mother. That untruth weighed heavy on her heart.

The photo on the left is one of two pictures  I have of Mamamae and her mother, Virgie Muscovalley McAuliffe.  She was the mother of three children, Fayetta, John Bill, and Marie, and the wife of John McAuliffe.  They were a good Catholic family, just starting to build a life together. According to the family Bible, she was born on Sept.8, 1886 and died on April 23, 1914 at the young age of 28. 

A measles epidemic had infected the Illinois town where the young couple  lived.  Vaccinations had not been discovered yet. When people got the measles there was no cure, a large percentage of  children and many adults died from complications of this disease.

                                                         
 I remember Mamamae and I were once again sitting on the front porch talking. I liked to hear stories about our family. That day I asked my grandmother  about her parents because I knew very little about them. Mamamae was not a talker. She kept her thoughts close to her heart. She thought for a minute and then very quietly said, "I was 7 years old when   I brought the measles home from school. Everyone at our house caught the measles except Daddy...I think he was working on the river. We were all so sick. Mama took care of the three of us as best she could. We started to get better and then Mama got sick. She couldn't get better,  the complications of the measles for Mama was meningitis. There was nothing the doctor could do for her. She writhed in pain.  Her fever could not be contained. I tried to keep her face cool, but I couldn't. A neighbor lady came in to help me with Mama, John Bill, and Marie.  Mama died within a few days."

At that time, the body of the deceased was put in a pine box and the living room was set up for a 'viewing area' for family and friends. Someone had to break Mamamae's mother's  back to get her in a coffin." I can still hear the god awful sound of that crack." Mamamae said in a whisper.  After a long and loud few minutes of silence from both of us, she went on to say she always felt like it was her fault.

Hearing this story broke my heart. I could not imagine taking care of my mother and trying my best to keep her alive and then having her die. It is more that a little 7 year old girl should have to endure. I started to cry.

                                                                

I really had a problem with this story. I knew it was true but I felt it was horribly wrong and unfair. They needed their mother. Mamamae went on to say that when her father got home, he was destroyed. When he left them to work on the river everyone was fine and happy.  Aunt Marie was a little baby and Uncle John Bill was about 4 or 5 and she was in the first or second grade. In a matter of weeks he lost his wife, had to quit his job and had 3 little children to take care of. He needed help.

At  7,  Mamamae inherited two children to raise until her Dad could make some other kind of arrangement. She said she was miserable. She hated changing diapers. She couldn't make Aunt Marie quit crying and Uncle John Bill would not mind her.  She had no idea how to cook.  I started crying again.  I was about 6 or 7, I could not imagine having to do the things she did.  I crawled up in her lap and I think we both cried. It wasn't often that Mamamae cried, that day she cried a lot.  She rocked me, together we cried for a long time. We watched the traffic go by on Hwy. 51. Both of us lost in her story, wishing it could have been changed.

Her father eventually married a woman Mamamae called "Mama Jo".  I don't think Mamamae particularly liked Mama Jo. She still had to take care of her brother and sister. She quit school in the 8th grade. She was needed at home to work. They moved around several times in Illinois and eventually settled in Cairo, Illinois. The impression I got from my grandmother was that after her mother died she was never really happy again, until she met Granddaddy.

Her father died when he was 45.  I never heard how or why he died so young.  I remember a few times after church we would drive to Cairo and visit Mama Jo. The only memory of her I have is where she lived. It was a three story house with crooked stairs.  We had to climb steps forever to get to her apartment. I know Granddaddy did not like her and sat in the car. After the first time of climbing those stairs I sat in the car with Granddaddy. I didn't like Mama Jo either.

When Mama Jo died we went to her funeral. I slept through the whole thing. I always felt she should have treated my grandmother better, trying to allow her to have some semblance of a childhood.  If she had, I might have stayed awake for her funeral!