Grandma's House

32 degrees at 8 am, and overcast. It will warm up today, but rain is on the way. Again. The water table must be in excellent shape!

A friend posted on Facebook that many of her dreams take place at her grandparents' house. Other people commented that the same is true for them. But not for me. I never, to my knowledge, dream of my grandparents' homes. And there is a good reason for that.

Since I only went to my (German) grandmother's house a very few times as a child, I hardly remember it.She didn't like us and made it plain--I think I was only allowed inside once, and I well remember my mother's nervousness and watchfulness lest one of us broke something, or did something Grandma (her mother-in-law) would disapprove of.

Grandma's home on Great Falls Street, in Falls Church, VA

I do remember Grandma's house, at least the outside of it. It was a big four-square Victorian in Falls Church, Virginia, with a nice yard, large shrubs, a picnic table and a clothesline. We thought she was rich. (Later I learned that my grandparents never actually owned a house; they always rented.) When I was 6, we moved into a similar house, in the then-small town of Manassas.

Outside their home in Falls Church, the day of Grandpa's retirement I believe.

The next year, Grandpa retired from the Coast Guard, and my grandparents decided to move back to New Orleans where they had lived for many years. They moved in with their youngest son, who was single, and they gave almost all their furniture, books, records, and dishes to us. I never saw their home in New Orleans, and only knew they later moved to Houston when I found a copy of Grandpa's obituary (he was killed in an accident with a truck in 1961).

Ashlyn, Caldecote, England

I never saw my Granny's home in England. With so many children, our family certainly could not afford to travel to England. By the time I finally got to England the little house my Grandfather built was long gone. Only Highfields, the house she lived in for a few years while my Grandfather managed Highfields Farm, is still standing.

Highfields, in 2013 when I visited England for the first time. I've been back twice since then.

Granny and Grandfather rented out their own little house while they lived in the bigger home, but when this grandfather was also killed by a car, hit on the Old Roman Road in 1930, Granny moved back to the little house they called Ashlyn.

My mother and my Granny, about 1935

An aunt and uncle built a new house next door, and together the family raised gardens, chickens and the like. Granny remarried when she was in her late 60's and moved into a caravan (we would call it a mobile home) on the property, with her new husband, who was actually the father of my aunt's husband. Very confusing, I know! Later other family members lived in Ashlyn, until finally the little house was torn down and a new house built. When Granddad died, Granny moved into a council house in town, and I am sure she enjoyed the luxury of a nice house with maintenance provided. She lived there until she passed away at 99.

So I never got to see my Granny's little house Ashlyn, although I am sure I would have loved it. It was simple little place, but it had something seldom seen in England: a front porch. There were roses in the garden, and chickens, and Granny put up food much as I do. Yes, I would have liked to have seen it, just as it was when she lived there.

I hope my grandchildren will dream about being at my house, and that their dreams will be good ones. They have all spent a good deal of time here, and I know my memories of their growing-up years are all good ones. Lots of laughter, comings and goings, people sleeping wherever we could find a place. Those were good years. And good memories.


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

At My Granny's House...

I have more recent pictures of my Granny, but unfortunately had not gotten them on my computer before it decided not to "see" the scanner. In this photo she's with my mother, who was about 8 years old, so Granny was about 33. Photo was taken around 1935.

I was not blessed with a granny right around the corner, in the next county or even in the next state. My granny lived in England and came to visit every five years or so. When she came, she stayed for months and we loved every minute with her. She was such a perfect lady, such a perfect...granny. Sensible shoes, gray hair pulled back, glasses, sweet smile, soft hands, good-smelling hankies in her pockets, soft English accent and the ability to produce tea at any time of the day. She wrote long letters on thin blue airmail paper that made reading difficult and sent lvoely hankies and manicure kits at Christmas. Sometimes she called on the phone and there was always great excitement in the house then.

Although my memories of my grandmother are usually of trying to keep out of her way, I remember her infectious laugh very well. And this photo makes me wonder if there were sides to Grandma I didn't get to know.

My grandmother was of German/Prussian heritage. She lived in a nearby town when I was very little, but by the time I was 5 or 6 she and Grandpa had moved to Louisiana and later to Texas. They made long road trips to Canada, the Southwest, Northwest, all kinds of places. They stopped by to visit every 6 months or so, staying for a few days. I was scared of Grandma--she had a deep voice, a stern way with us children and thought our mother let us run amuck (She did, thank goodness. That's why so many of us are creative people). We liked it when these grandparents came because they brought slides to show of all the places they'd been. Grandma made tied quilts for us, and dresses of always the same pattern. She sent us $1.00 in dimes that stuck into little slots on our birthday cards. Still, I was aware of her disapproval of our mother and of our family in general and that still colors my memories of her. That is a whole different story, however, and one I may tell here one day.

Neither grandmother was what I'd call accessible. They were just too far away. I have no memories of sitting in their kitchens making cookies with them, or working in their gardens or hearing stories of when they were young. I don't remember them being there to listen to my sorrows or to watch proudly when I was in a school program or won an award. They just weren't part of my life in that way.

So I love to hear Larry's stories about his grannies. About visiting them, helping them with chores, hearing ghost stories from them or about how they'd kept their grown sons in line (with a coal shovel, I think it was). They were part of his every day, just down the road, a place to go whenever home got too difficult or just boring.

For my grandchildren I try to be the kind of granny I think I would have liked. I am sorry to have to be a working granny with a job that seems to get in the way quite a lot. But when the grandkids are here, we cook. We talk. They visit the chickens and walk up the hill to get my mail. We tell stories and sing songs. We watch the stars and the dogs. We build fires and watch those too. We go Mothman hunting and ride ferryboats and go to the Downtowner for breakfast. I hope they carry these memories with them and remember being at my house with the kind of comfort with which Larry remembers his granny's homes.

Which got me to wondering. What is it you remember most about your granny or grandmother's house? When you start a sentence with the words "At my granny's house" how would you most likely finish it? Leave a comment and tell us about what it meant, or still means, to you to visit your granny.

Some Things We Just Should Know

I've been thinking about things that I assume everyone knows.

Things like:

• You should always offer your seat to an older person.
• It's not polite to make derogatory comments about someone's home when you visit.
• Never, ever comment on someone's weight unless they bring up the subject; even then, be polite and positive.
• Never ask a woman her age.
• Never ask a man either.
• Hold the door for those following behind you.
• Be sure there is enough for everyone else when you fill your plate.
• Don't ask for seconds.

There are many more of these. What are some things that you think everyone should know?

I am wondering if the "rules" I know still apply. Do parents still teach these to their children? Or is there a new set of rules today?

What prompted my thoughts was the recent documentary by Diane Sawyer that supposedly studies the poverty of the Appalachians. People here are up in arms: she came here, a visitor who was raised in Kentucky, and was treated well. Yet she made a documentary that revisits all the old stereotypes without showing that the many-dimensional face of mountain people. We have poverty; we have problems. We also have lively cities, educated people, thriving industries, and timeless beauty. We have a city with the lowest unemployment rate in the country, and a state that still operates with a surplus.

She missed all of those; I suppose these things are not newsworthy. I think her mother forgot to teach her rule #2 above. Don't visit someone and talk bad about their home. That's bad manners.

Shame, Diane. Shame on you. You missed the real story of the mountains and used your opportunity to drag out the old trash.

Grandma's Winning Poem

When we were sorting my Dad's things, we found this clipping in a box of old letters. The Scopes trial was in progress at the time of the contest (July 1925), and I find it intriguing that my grandmother was so interested in events at the time that she wrote the last line for this limerick and entered it in a radio show contest:


We're hearing of Darrow and Bryan
and what they're doin' and tryin'
there seems no escape
from talk of the ape
and the monkey is king o'er the lion.





Grandma was a well-read and educated woman and she wrote many, many letters. Perhaps it was the custom of the day to communicate daily with family and friends via short notes and letters. The boxes of letters we found covered topics domestic and national: recipes, dresses she was making, dinner parties, mixed drinks, trips they took, Grandpa's Supreme Court case, allusions to legal problems of the mob type that someone they knew was having, gardening, letters trying to straighten out business matters...every possible aspect of life.

My paternal grandmother, Bertha V. Becker Connelly. I don't know when this photo was taken, but probably before she was married (I think that was 1916)and certainly before her hair turned completely white. My father did not recall her ever having dark hair as she did in this photo. When he was young, her hair was always blond.

Grandma years later, hiking on the Appalachian Trail. I never knew this side of my grandmother, either. But in her photos and letters are many references to stays in national and state parks. Our family reunion is now held in one of her favorite parks, Lost River State Park in Hardy County, West Virginia.

By the time this photo was taken her hair was white, and that is how I remember her--tall, thin, wavy soft white hair, a deep voice, tiny hands and feet (size 4!). I wish I had known her when she was young and writing the letters that are so full of life and excitement at the world around her.

One of the truest pleasures of being a mother and grandmother is visits from children and grandchildren. Our oldest son lives on the other side of West Virginia, which means on the other side of the state's highest mountains.

Which means little visiting in the winter months. But this weekend we got a weather break, and George and family came over the hills to Granny's house.

I realized that these two grandchildren were the only ones who had never been to breakfast at the Downtowner in Ripley. Now I make a mean breakfast, but at the Downtowner everyone can order what they please in a friendly, welcoming atmosphere where "everybody knows your name." Guess where we had breakfast?

The only thing the Downtowner doesn't make is grits, and I love grits. I found a work-around --I brought my own grits in my purse. The cooks graciously agreed to fix them for me. Ah, small towns!

After breakfast I introduced my visitors to Rachel and Mike of Rachel's Relics Antique Shop. Grace and I had fun trying on hats, and Grace found one that was obviously waiting just for her.

Back home, some of us baked cookies while others went outside to start building the greenhouse.

We spent the evening by the fire, piddling around with instruments none of us can really play but enjoy trying. Other grandchildren came to visit too, and one spent the night--blow up another air mattress!

They went home today (after a few of them tried coddled eggs with herbs from the garden for breakfast--not everyone liked them but at least they gave it a try). It will be a while before we see them again, but this weekend we made every minute count.

I was thinking about how much my grandchildren enjoy visiting here. I know kids--any change is a welcome change. But from their perspective, it would not seem that this is an attractive place to visit--no television, XBox or Wii or even very fast internet. No stores within 12 miles, no malls within 50 miles. No skating rinks, professional sports, Build-a-Bear, little-girl spa makeovers.

What is here: Woods. Dogs. Fireplace. Usually chickens, sometimes pigs. A tractor. Puppets and lots of craft

Poppa Larry clowning around with Clayton

supplies. Musical instruments they can play with. Books--lots of them. A big porch and deck. A granny who likes to cook with kids and a Poppa Larry who cannot be believed for five minutes. Stories and songs-- lots of those. Stars at night. Birds at the feeders. Deer in the fields. Unusual stuff all over the house that they are allowed to touch.

It must be enough because the grandkids clamor to come back.

I did not give much thought to how to be a grandmother until I found myself in that role. I've learned it as I've gone along. But it has been without a doubt the second richest experience of my life, right behind having my sons. Success for me isn't measured in dollars, but in the security of my family knowing that they are well-loved.

Grandparenting

My sons were shooting skeets (clay pigeons), and the grandkids were watching them. My daughter-in-law and I were cleaning up the kitchen when she mentioned that she wanted to see the new Wal-mart in town. Now, I don’t like this behemoth of a store, but shopping in a small town is limited, and where she lived had even less choices. I’d bought some Christmas lights that I didn’t like and wanted to return, so I said, “Hey, let’s go. You can shop and I can return these lights.”

We got in the car and started up the driveway. As we passed the skeet shooters we stopped to tell them where we were going. “Wal-Mart,” I said.

I was not prepared for the stampede that followed. “I want to go!” Ten grandchildren raced down the hill toward the car, waving their arms and shouting.

What did I do? I floored it! Gravel spit from the tires as we made our escape. Ten kids in Wal-Mart? Would you have tried that adventure? Maybe I’d have had an even better story to tell, but then again, I doubt I would have survived the trip. I’m pretty sure a few grandchildren would not have made it either.

Today I thought about grandparenting. I’m learning as I go. My husband is a wonderful grandfather, and I wondered where he learned this skill. I realized that our backgrounds provided different training for our present roles.

Poppa Larry and the grandkids return from a ride in the tractor wagon. if you think that left tire is totally flat, you'd be right! But the kids wanted to ride anyway. It was a rough trip, to judge by the squalling and laughter I heard.

My husband was raised in the coal camps of southern West Virginia. His grandparents, or at least those who were still living, were close by and he spent a lot of time with them. There were many other elders in the community—the old men who gathered around the stove at the company store to whittle and swap stories, the grannies who made sure the children went to church, aunts and uncles.

I was raised in a small town in northern Virginia. My mother’s mother lived in England and visited only rarely, although while she was with us she was an excellent role model for what a granny should be. My father’s mother was a stern German woman who visited occasionally and expected us to behave. I loved and feared her.

But my mother was the quintessential granny. She loved babies and grandchildren. She made tea and provided cookies. She listened, hugged, kissed, laughed, and was proud of every one of her 36 grandchildren. It was from her I learned my granny-ing skills.

Being a grandparent isn’t as easy as it sounds. Your home is invaded from time to time by hungry hordes that devour every easily edible thing in sight. Beds overtake each room—sleeping bags, air mattresses, hide-a-beds. Odd clothing and shampoos are left behind and no one ever claims them. The dogs assume that they can come on the porch, even though they have never been allowed to do that. You will cook mounds of food that disappear in minutes, and find odd websites left on your computer. Your jewelry, puppets, clothing and books will reappear in strange locations. The storytelling closet will be raided for puppets and gas masks.

Clayton tries to inhale pizza through his mask, with help from friends.

The hot water heater will work overtime, and there will be mounds of bedding to wash when the house is suddenly, sadly quiet once again. Your dogs will mourn for days when everyone leaves.

It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it. I’m glad I got elected for the position.