- Jun 30, 2019
(This post is prompted, in part, by family pictures, ties, and stories that grow more precious with time. "The Short Women Love Their Hats" (above) features Caroline Foster Springer Short, Ruby Short Fox, and Francis--all ancestors of my husband's through his maternal great grandfather Royal Elmo Short.)
Over lunch with my friend Laura last week, I asked her about a book she’s writing. It details her journey from executive assistant to entrepreneur. Laura is vibrant and eloquent and frequently speaks in the financial planning arena. I inferred that her book would provide her with something tangible to market to her audiences once her presentations have ended. “It’s partly that,” Laura agreed. “But what really motivates me to keep writing is the idea that this book is part of my legacy. I think of it as a gift to my great grandchildren, so that they can get to know something about me beyond just a picture in an album.” That caused a chill. The good kind of chill that gets me to thinking. A few days later, listening to a Fresh Air podcast on my way to work, I heard Terry Gross’s guest share these statistics: “Around 44 percent of people can’t name a single one of their great grandparents. Only 11 percent can name all eight of them.” That caused another chill and got me thinking some more, enough so that when I got home, I sat at the computer and pulled up the ancestry record of my own great grandparents. All eight of them.
Going down the list, I recognized a couple names. One was Jay D. Harding, my mom’s maternal grandpa, who married Mary Jolietta Ingersoll, known as Grandma Jolly. They had two daughters, Pearl (my grandma) and Doris (my great aunt). In a rare airing of dirty Harding family laundry (or, as my mother liked to say, “rumor had it...”), Grandma Jolly had an illicit affair with a farmhand, which produced a third little girl, Marion. Apparently, Jay grew despondent knowing Marion wasn’t his and eventually hung himself in the barn.
(Below left, Great Grandpa Jay with daughters Pearl and Doris; right, Jay’s death certificate, which confirms suicide, but by poisoning, not hanging.)
As with most family histories, time blurs fact and fiction until a story is formed. Sometimes the blur is to protect reputations; sometimes it’s simply due to faulty recall. I wish I knew more about great Grandpa Jay, like if he ever felt joy, but I don’t and I’m not going to pretend.
Some might say perhaps we should skip the stories and stick to pictures, which in days of yore weren’t routinely filtered or doctored. Personally, I love old pictures. Good thing, too, because when it comes to memories of my great grandparents, in some cases pictures are all I have.
(Below left, my mother’s paternal grandmother, Agnes Elizabeth [Peters] who, at age 16, married great Grandfather Daniel Prime in Cambridgeshire, England; they immigrated to the U.S. several years later. Below right, my father Doug’s maternal grandparents and their children [from top left]: Kenneth, Marguerite [my Grandma Putt], Thelma, Herbert, Carl, my great Grandma Hattie [Trader], great Grandpa Charles, and Arthur.)
So should we stop sharing family stories because they might not be 100% spot on? I hope not! When it comes to my dad’s paternal grandparents, William Ezra and Elizabeth [Wilmot] Putnam, I don’t have a single photo. I do have stories of their ancestors, though, from a history published by The Salem Press Publishing and Printing Co., Salem, Mass., 1908 (Vol. 2). It tells the tale of how William’s great Grandfather Sylvanus was, as a child, “taken prisoner by the Indians [with] his father, [who] was killed and scalped within sight of the fort which had been built for the protection of the settlers. Sylvanus was then aged thirteen years. For three years he remained a prisoner at Montreal. Father and son were engaged in gathering apples at the time of the attack.” Now there’s a story that creates its own vivid pictures in my mind’s eye.
Other Putnam tales prevail. My fourth great grandfather Seth was, according to his gravestone, an officer in the Revolutionary Army. His son Thomas “is authority for the statement that he was a member of the ‘Boston Tea Party.’” Fact or fiction? Who knows for sure? It fascinates me, though. And it brings to mind a couple things:
(1) We can’t control the actions that our forefathers (and mothers) took in the years before we were here. We can learn about them, maybe glow with pride over some, probably cringe and beg to atone for others. We are not responsible for our history. Yet may we be punished if we fail to learn from it or dare to repeat its atrocities.
(2) The time to learn and share OUR stories is now!
I was reminded of my love of stories again when my good friend Karen and I were out on a goddess cruise on the lake. As we floated on noodles in Flamingo Cove, we talked about the things that women friends discuss. You know, our futures, our husbands, our wrinkles, our lineage, our kids, our fat, our grands, our...everything, as in The World According to Karen and Jan.
Somehow our conversation came around to missing our moms. Karen just recently lost hers. Mine passed in 2012. They both died after lengthy illnesses. We feel sadness, of course, but it’s not like the Facebook brand of sorrow where women proclaim to miss their mothers. Every. Single. Day. I can’t speak for Karen, but I think at times I feel more guilt than grief, over the scantiness of my tears and the relief that my mom's pain is gone.
But...there are times, if not every damned day, when I’d give almost anything to have my mother back by my side. To have one last conversation. To ask questions that will forever go unanswered. To listen just once more, this time with patience and interest, to my mother’s stories.
“When I retire,” I told Karen, “I want to write and play piano and hang out with the grands and travel. But I also want to run workshops to help people share their own stories. Not their histories. Their stories.”
In closing, may I share one of my family's stories with you? It's called “The Mitt.”
The mitt came in a gift bag. It wasn’t the most expensive mitt, but it was nice: a Rawlings – Player Preferred - with an all leather shell. “The Mark of a Pro” was stamped beneath the mitt’s thumb.
Tucked in with it were glove conditioner and a green low-cost practice ball.
I watched, pleased, as the mitt came out of the bag. As with all new mitts, it was stiff and needed breaking in. Dinner could wait, I said, if a game of catch out back sounded appealing.
Beside me on the back porch my daughter Quinn rocked her daughter Charli. Together, we three girls watched three generations of boys toss the ball back and forth in the yard.
The youngest boy, Britton, had trouble catching from time to time. His father Patrick held back on throwing tooooooo hard. He coached with kindness but without cajoling. Then there was Big Daddy, a lifelong baseball lover who’d played his share but clearly felt comfortable taking a back seat in the coaching arena this round.
It was a simple thing, three generations having a catch out back on a breezy June day. It was also so close to perfect that I hated to see it end. When dinner could wait no longer, I called for gloves to come off and hands to be washed before we sat down for our meal.
“Did you enjoy playing catch?” I asked the boy I’ve loved the longest.
“I did,” he replied, his eyes agleam. “Can I tell you something?” he added. “I played a lot of baseball growing up. Sandlot games, mostly, but I always had to borrow a mitt. This is the first mitt I’ve ever owned.”
(Above, Big Daddy and his mitt.)
Someday I hope our grandson Britton will share this story with a grand of his own. Maybe he’ll hold the child on his knee. Or maybe they’ll talk while having a catch. The picture’s a blur, but I hear the conversation clearly. It’s about the special day that a little boy named Britton gave his Big Daddy his very first baseball mitt.
I mean, what kind of life would it be if we didn't take time to share our special stories with the people we love?
Holy man! Can you believe it? As of today (May 22), school’s out for summer here in our part of Georgia.
Memorial Day’s yet to be observed (meaning we shouldn’t even officially be wearing white shoes, right, you all?). Yet the azaleas have faded, and the oak leaf hydrangeas are popping. The pool has opened for the season, its renovations fresh, its water still cool. Kids’ squeals echo stridently off the cement. Moms and dads share their kids’ excitement. Yay for summer! At the same time, a grimace (or an occasional outright declaration) gives away that nagging feeling shared by many in parental silence: “Heaven help us all!”
This morning I had the privilege of taking one last lovely walk to the park to see my grandson and some neighbor kids off to school for the end of the 2018-19 academic year. It was last call for the school bus...until next fall, of course. The kids were bouncing off the sidewalk. (Well, not above. That pic is the second-to-last day, when they were slightly more contained.)
On this last morning, freedom was mere hours away. Forecasts of their summer journeys varied. One family was preparing for a move to Savannah. (I was touched that Ms. Roxanne, the bus driver, brought them a parting gift.) Inevitably, somebody mentioned their summer plans involved a trip to the beach. I’m not sure which beach. The Florida Panhandle is a popular destination.
Now I, too, love the beach, particularly the Panhandle. I love it in the spring or fall, not in the God awful dog-breath heat of summer. But here’s an amazing truth: Almost everyone else I know loves to do Florida in summer. ‘Tis the season, they’ll say while forking over a hefty premium. My own daughter and son-in-law are among these blazing-sun-and-sand worshipers. Power to ‘em. Maybe it’s my Michigan blood, but I just can’t do it. Not even for a week ocean-front with the grands. I. Just. Can’t.
It’s not that summer wasn’t once my favorite season. It was, back when I lived in God’s country during my formative years. Sally Hanes, one of my dearest junior high friends, would invite me to her family’s cottage on Hardwood Lake for a week or two each summer. During the early years of my visits, the Hanes’ cottage was small and rustic, with no indoor plumbing. We used the outhouse without a fuss, and we gladly pumped water from the creaky well for use in the kitchen at meal time. Over time, the Hanes family added indoor plumbing and a sleeping porch, and they converted the uphill garage into a bunk area with beds and an old piano.
God, how I loved my times at Hardwood Lake. Sometimes Sal and I would rise early to row to the foggy marsh to fish. Later we’d shave our legs in the pure lake water till they “felt like silk” and then soak up the sun on the dock, reading teen magazines. We water skied (she in a graceful slalom, me chopping over the wake like a bobble-head toy). We’d cruise in the boat in search of the “Green boat” guys, eventually anchoring near them on the other side of the lake. Cranking the tape deck, we’d sing at the top of our lungs to Chicago’s Just You and Me, or maybe a Beach Boys’ oldie.
Later, back at Sal’s dock, we’d lounge in the idle boat, challenging each other to a game of Battleship, the version before computers when you had to plot and play out your strategy on a piece of graph paper. Rarely, if ever, did we venture into town. The lake in summer was all we needed. It provided a season of respite, a time to slow down and catch one’s breath.
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Now days, summer no longer brings rest. The busiest family gets the prize. What can I say? Times change. These days, therefore, I measure my seasons differently. They no longer fill mere months on a calendar. Rather, they weave a colorful landscape, a beautiful messy life. In the spring of this life, when I was a mom, I grew easily frustrated when my kids’ personalities clashed with mine, when their peccadilloes caused the dominoes of my day to crash down around me. Now in the fall of my life, my role is that of a grand mom, or JJ, as I’m called.
What’s the difference between a mom (spring) and a JJ (fall)?
JJs have more patience for the kid who dawdles over breakfast. JJs don’t have to nag the kid to get ready to walk to the bus. (They have an Alexa to do the prompting for them.) JJs find the kid’s quirks amusing, and they take him to the pool on opening day. (Once upon a spring, when this JJ was not yet a grand mom, she’d choose a root canal over a trip to the pool on opening day. Hands down.)
But I digress.
School’s out for summer here in our part of Georgia. The water will soon turn hot as Hades up at the pool. That’s where you’re apt to find me, probably with the grands. Yay for summer? Yeah, right. It may be the fall of this JJ’s beautiful messy life, but still you may hear me mutter: “Heaven help us all!”
Cheers! Jan
Did you know that April is National Car Care Month? In that light, here’s a question for you: What’s the all-time favorite car you’ve ever owned? My first car was a yellow Chevelle. I was sixteen, and the car may have been almost as old. I can’t say she was my favorite, but I was fond of her. The first week I owned her, I almost set her on fire. If you surmise I was showing her off, you’d be right. There I was, cruising my friends around town, wind whipping at my blond hair, Jim Croce crooning from the sound track. Suddenly Charlie Borchard called from the back seat, “Uh...Jannie, we have a problem.” (These may not have been his exact words. I just remember that Charlie was a mellow guy, definitely not an alarmist.) Someone else in back—Bob Johns? or maybe Joe Ruthig?—was a bit louder and more demonstrative. Their words, “Pull over, Janet!” caught my attention, and I heeded. The problem? Ash coming off my cigarette was blowing from outside my driver’s window back into the car through Charlie’s passenger window behind me. As poor Charlie batted the ash, a hot ember had engaged with some loose papers underneath my seat. They say where there’s smoke there’s fire. They are correct. Other memories of my Chevelle are distant but vivid. She hydroplaned like a crazy lady on roller skates. I learned to avoid puddles. I also learned to stay calm and off the brakes when water couldn’t be avoided. Speaking of brakes, the Chevelle had brakes that screeched like a banshee, especially when jammed. I discovered this the day a friend and I decided to skip psychology class. My mom was working, or so I thought, but as we drove nearer my house, we saw Mom’s car backing out of the driveway. I wanted her not to see me so, instinctively, I hit the brakes. Screech!!!!!!! Talk about getting busted in plain sight. In spite of my love-hate relationship with her, I’m sad to say, the Chevelle died ahead of her time and by my hand. I failed to change her oil. That is not a good thing. It will, as I can attest, blow an engine, causing certain death. Through the years, I’ve had a number of cars. In college, I nailed an 8-point buck while driving a peach-colored Monza. In early adulthood, Rice and I, white-knuckled, brought our first born home from the hospital tucked snug in her car seat in the back seat of a navy blue Citation. These days, I drive a diesel-fueled VW Passat. She’s black, rides smoothly, and gets excellent mileage. Her name is Adele, and, aesthetically, she’s quite lovely. Some of you might think she’s my favorite car ever. You would be wrong.
The all-time favorite car that I’ve ever owned was probably not really a car at all. The Tank was a boxy black Ford Aerostar minivan that drove like a truck. How excited the kids were the first night we drove it around the subdivision to show off our “new” purchase. How mortified they would become, years later, when The Tank became the vehicle in which they learned to drive.
During its hay day, The Tank served us well. It carried us to the beach and back on more spring break trips than I can remember. It transported our son’s cello trio—all three teenaged boys and their instruments—to and from practices, tryouts, and gigs. It provided rides for a slew of our daughters’ soccer buddies—and their gear—to and from practices, tryouts, and games. The Tank even managed to warm things up in the bedroom for Rice and me.
How, you ask? I’ll tell you.
One night the ringing phone jarred us awake a bit after midnight. The phone was on Rice’s side of the bed, so I listened curiously to his half of the conversation. “Yes, Officer, we do own a Ford Aerostar.” “Yes, she has our permission to drive it.” “Thank you, sir, I appreciate your checking.” Then, I kid you not, the man hung up the phone and rolled over to go back to sleep. In fairness, he was still half-asleep. I, on the other hand, was not. I jumped out of bed, flush, determined to learn what in the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks was going on.
Long story short: Our underage daughter was caught drinking that night. She blamed it on The Tank, which looked “sketch” parked on the street of her friend’s upscale neighborhood. Rice and I agreed. The Tank is what caught the attention of police during a routine neighborhood drive-through. The officers had noticed The Tank parked haphazardly, unlocked, with a full bottle of Jägermeister in the passenger seat. They’d also noticed that The Tank sat in front of a house with a big ol’ picture window. Looking through that window was like gazing onto a well-lit stage. On that stage, three teen-aged fools sat at a table, yucking it up, a case of Bud light at their fingertips. The good news is, we all survived that night. Yes, even our daughter. God love her.
We continued to drive The Tank for a decent stretch of time after that night. Toward the end, her air conditioning failed. She started to fall apart. We often couldn’t fix her, as Ford no longer made her or her parts. Eventually, we had to let her go in peace.
Here’s the thing: Despite her boxiness, our kids all learned to drive her. Despite her sketchy façade, she got us safely from place to place. Sure, The Tank did tank. But not before she carried her weight in swimsuits and boogie boards, in cellos and soccer gear, in Jägermeister and who-knows-what-else? What a glorious ride she provided in her day. Despite the fact that she wasn't really a car at all, The Tank may be the all-time favorite car I’ve ever owned.
How ‘bout you? What’s yours?
Cheers! J
