Cries of delight rang out when my sister and cousins found long-forgotten handmade gifts made fifteen to twenty years ago. Then I found practically all of the presents I had made for her, too. Simple boxes and trinkets most people would have thrown out one week later, she had safely tucked away for her pleasure.
All those giftsâneedlework, shellacked plaques with trite sayings, macramé potholders and scores of other items made by her seventeen grandchildrenâfilled the spaces of her home. When I had given her gifts and crayon pictures, she had smiled pleasantly, never one to make a big fuss.
Box after box, we searched in wonder. There were crocheted baby hats, leaving us to wonder whose tiny heads they fit at one time. Seven sons had been born to my grandparents. She never said much about the two who died at young ages.
Nestled with the pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses she must have worn as a teenager were Grandfather's rusted fishhooks. She had even saved his old shaving cup, razor and razor strap. His death came at the beginning of their “good years,” after all the sons had left and life was slowing down. She stoically lived another twenty years without him, yet we always knew she missed him.
In her jewelry box, scattered among the costume jewelry, was a small, rough, gray rock. But it had my father's name on it, written in his own childish handwriting in black ink. As he rubbed and examined it, his eyes searched the stone for details of its past. He couldn't remember its importance, but she must have. He was her youngest son, the one she tended to spoil.
We laughed when we discovered a paint-by-number picture hidden behind a door. I claimed it as mine, but my brother said it was his. Why either of us would want to claim it, I don't know. It is the ugliest painting in the world, yet she saved it. From a distance, it looked like a dog; closer up, it was a swamp of mottled green and brown paint.
I saw the valentines first. It was like finding treasure. All different sizes of bright red cards, 1930s vintage. Chubby-cheeked children, angelic faces, with cute cartoon sayings: “How's chances?” and “You've got me all busted up over you!” Most were addressed to my father, each from a different girl. There were a few re-addressed to another brother, apparently some early attempts at recycling.
But most of all we found letters. Page after page that recounted everyday life, heartaches and unexpected joys.
“I think the kids have the flu.”
“Guess we'll be coming home for Christmas.”
“We're having pretty good weather today.”
“I'm tired of camp and want to come home.”
Grandma faithfully answered every letter.
I have heard many stories of families fighting tooth and nail over an antique bedroom suite, a piano or a diamond ring. Grandma wasn't able to hand down valuable heirlooms like that, but what we found were more precious than Victorian pianos. Her memories were her keepsakes, important enough to save for decades, even as long as fifty years.
I'm sure that on her loneliest nights, these treasures gave herâand now usâthe greatest pleasures.
Susan Chesser Branch
L
ife shrinks or expands in proportion to one's
courage.
Anais Nin
In the early 1900s, when thirteen was, sadly, far from a tender age, my grandmother escaped the pogroms of the tsarist regime in the Ukraine with her father, baby brother and sisters for the “gold-paved” streets of New York City. It would be ten years before she would see her mother and her other brothers again.
To help her father begin to squirrel away enough funds to send for the remainder of the family, she endured the stifling summer swelter and finger-numbing winter cold, the severe eyestrain, and the loss of many precious days of her youth in the pursuit of piece work in the garment industry. What differentiated her from many immigrant girls and women in similar circumstances was the specific “sweat shop” in which she worked: the ill-fated Triangle Shirt Factory. For on March 25, 1911, shortly before her fifteenth birthday, my grandmother would become the instrument of her own survival, when the building would burst into flames, ultimately killing 146 of her coworkers. Almost seventy-five years later, I had the opportunity to learn more about this infamous day, right around the time I was facing major challenges in my own life that would test my mettle, resilience and courageâjust as the great fire had tested my grandmother's.
In the mid-1980s, when my grandmother was nearing ninety, declining somewhat physically but still as sharp mentally as the needles with which she so lovingly continued to sew and repair our family's clothes, I read a human-interest article about the “last known” survivor of the Triangle fire. I knew the premise to be false, but rather than contact the reporter and diminish the fifteen minutes of fame of the brave subject of that story, I set out on a personal quest: to find out the details of the peril in which my grandmother found herself that day and the circumstances that enabled her to survive to enrich my mother's life and mine in so many ways for so many years afterward. I studied the history of the event and interviewed my remaining great aunts and uncles, but my best source of information was my grandmother herself. Although her short-term memory had declined over the years, her long-term memories were still intact and richly detailed.
They led me to a picture I hold deep in my mind's eye and in my heart: a young woman with long, auburn hair, strong legs and a determination to survive that led her veritably to leap across tall buildings in a single bound. I envision her with a heavy, patched apron, high black shoes and a set jaw as she refused to take the death leap like so many of the young girls with whom she worked. Following her instincts instead, she trusted the one supervisor in whose honesty and compassion she believed, forming a human chain with others from her work crew. I can see that chain weaving through the smoky haze as he led them around doors locked to “cut down on employee theft” to the one door they could force open and, ultimately, to the roof. There, she and her cohorts made the leap to the roof of the next building intact, defying their potential fate.
It was that image that sustained me when, at the age of thirty-five, I underwent heart surgery, and once again a month into my recuperation when I entered premature menopause and learned in my first year of marriage that I would never be able to conceive. And I would summon up her figure in midleap a year and a half later when I learned I had breast cancer, and throughout my year of ensuing chemotherapy treatments as well.
Now, at age fifty-four, a successful professional counselor, writer and adoptive mother of two young children, I know that my second mother and best friend, my inspiration and my rock, provided me with one of the most precious legacies a granddaughter could ever receive: the courage to take her life into her own hands with self-reliance and positive resolve.
Hannah Amgott
F
riendship is the shadow of the evening, which
strengthens with the setting sun of life.
Jean de La Fontaine
Lydia went up into the attic to get the old dehumidifier for Grandma Ruth's bedroom. Once she'd opened the trapdoor and climbed the rickety old ladder into the crawl space, she couldn't resist rummaging through some of the family heirlooms stored up there. Her attention was drawn to an old locket resting on top of a photo collection, stacked neatly in an attractive but faded hatbox. Lydia's curiosity got the better of her, so she carefully picked up and examined the tiny piece of jewelry. It didn't look expensive, but it was well made and charming. She knew it must have been a special present to a child.
She gingerly snapped the clasp open, taking care not to break the delicate hinges. Hidden inside were two miniature photographs of smiling little girls, perhaps eight or nine years old. One of the happy young faces looked just like her Grandma Ruth. But who was the other young lady? Could it be that Lydia had a secret, long-lost great-aunt? Who was this stranger in the locket and what had become of her?
Forgetting the dehumidifier and clutching the locket, Lydia scurried down the ladder and burst into Grandma's sewing room. Grandma was busy at work on her entry in the town's annual quilting bee.
“Grandma,” Lydia exclaimed, “look what I found. Is this you?”
Grandma slowly took the trinket from Lydia's hand and cupped it gently in her palm. She examined it quietly for a moment. A sad, wistful smile passed over her face. “It's me,” she nodded.
“But who's the other little girl? You look so much alike. Was she . . . was she your sister?”
“Oh, no,” Grandma laughed, “No . . . but we were as close as any sisters could be, Emma and I.”
“But who was she?” Lydia asked eagerly.
“We grew up together right here in town. Went everywhere togetherâwe wore the same clothes, rode the same bikes. We even got the same haircut. I remember the day these photos were taken, down at the old Imperial Theaterâof course, that's a laundromat now.”
“Sounds like you two had a very special friendship.”
“We were like peas in a pod,” Grandma agreed, “until Emma's family moved away to Akron. Her father was a doctor, and he took a job at a clinic in the city. We wrote every day, then every week, then a few times a yearâall through high school, and even after I met your Grandpa Bill. But somehow we lost touch after that. It's been more than fifty years since I've heard from her.”
Grandma's story made Lydia think of her own special friendships, how much they meant to her and how she would hate to lose touch with the “Emmas” in her own life.
“I wonder whatever happened to her,” sighed Grandma, “I guess I'll never know.”
But Lydia was never one to give up hope, and seeing Grandma's reaction to the locket, she was determined to find out. She spent the remainder of her stay poring over Emma's old lettersâshe didn't want to miss a single one.
Fortunately, Grandma had saved many of them, pressed between the pages of a heavy copy of the young friends' favorite book,
Little Women
by Louisa May Alcott. Like the book, Emma's letters also told a moving storyâthe story of two great friends coming of age together. But the story of Ruth and Emma wasn't a tale of fiction; it was all true.
Lydia was struck by one letter in particular. It was among the latest in Grandma's collection, and it contained a clue she thought might help them learn of Emma's whereabouts. One of Emma's last letters announced that she had taken a teaching position at a school in the city. Perhaps that school still existed and might have some record of Grandma's old friend.
Some amateur detective work on the Internet quickly revealed that the school was still in operation, but had relocated to a new building in 1963. Lydia was worried. Had Emma's records survived the move? It was time to make some phone calls.
The principal was reluctant to share any details over the phone, but when Lydia explained the unique circumstances, she agreed to meet in person. Lydia bought a round-trip bus ticket and was on her way to Akron later that same week.
Lydia's meeting with the principal was more successful than she had dared to hope. Emma had retired before the principal had come to the school, but a few of the older teachers had fond memories of her. The French teacher still visited with her regularly. She could arrange a meeting.
Two weeks later, on the day of the annual quilting bee, Emma made the journey all the way from Akron, driven by her son Steve. Lydia had spent the morning calming Grandma, who paced nervously about the house, straightening and restraightening the doilies.
Emma entered quietly. “Ruth,” she said with a shy smile.
Without a word, Grandma handed Emma the locket. No words were needed.
Emma's son Steve was an accomplished photographer, and his cameras captured beautifully the meeting of the two friends. When they left, he asked to borrow the locket. Nobody was quite sure why, until a package arrived at Grandma's house a few weeks later. Steve had enlarged, restored and framed the original photos of the young friends in the locket, and added two moreâthe old friends, reunited at last.
As for Lydia, she made a special lifelong friend of her own. She and Steve are expecting their first child this spring.
Tal Aviezer and Jason Cocovinis
M
emory is the diary that we all carry about
with us.
Oscar Wilde
I ran up the stairs to Grandma Flemming's porch as fast as my three-year-old legs would carry me. Slipping on the wet porch, I fell and cut my eyebrow on a glass milk bottle waiting to be picked up by the milkman. Loving arms enfolded me, “There, there, it will be alright. We'll make it all better.” Those are the first memories I have of my mother's mother.
Not many years after that event my grandparents moved away from Ohio to Indiana, where my grandfather would pastor a succession of small churches until he retired. Grandma remained a very special person in my life in spite of the fact that I didn't see her as often as I would have liked. I have many happy, poignant memories of her funny, cackling laugh; her high nasal voice; spending several weeks with her one summer; the glass cabinet where she kept her collection of knick-knacks and novelty salt and pepper shakers; and her house near the railroad tracks. One Christmas the rumbling of the train in the early-morning hours brought the nine-foot Christmas tree crashing to the floor!