Threads
Do we carry the memories of all those who have gone before us inside us somewhere? Like the strands of DNA that make our hair brown and eyes green, is there some sacred spot inside us that holds the lives of our ancestors?
The women on the left was born in the Carpathian Mountains in a small rural village. The name of the community is gone now, you will not find it on a map, I have looked. She often spoke of the way the air would move up and down the mountains depending on the time of day. Her mother was a quiet woman who always had a ready smile. I remember the stories of picking blueberries and how her sister would tell on her if she ate to many. She was married at 16, to a man 10 years her senior. It was not a love match, a marriage of necessity and very common for that time. He was a small minded man with big dreams. He waged war with the bottle and more often than not
lost.
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She never spoke of him, he died right after the little boy in the middle was born, mere weeks. She never remarried even though she was quite young when her husband died. Considering the abuse she survived, it is no small wonder. She had 3 sons and a daughter, three of which out lived her. I can close my eyes and recall the way she felt and her scent, soft with arms like steel, hard cords of muscle even in her 78th year.Her scent of women mixed with bread yeast and a sweet cologne that came out of a bottle with a swan on it. I can hear her tongue clicking as her heavily accented voice shows me again how too knead the bread. I hear the anger in her voice as she teaches me my first cuss word ” Men! He puts that fake lard in his bread and tells me it’s better and it’s progress! shprustee-shleemock!” I think I was always in awe of her sheer will.
The woman on the right is her daughter, her second youngest.She also married a man 11 years her senior. She is a woman of moods, a mix of dreams and determination to persevere. She always spoke of the toil of her youth, of having to clean rich nasty women’s houses. How the husbands were always free with their hands and you had to watch. How heavy the drapes were that had to be carried outside and beaten. The lye soap that always burned your eyes and stung your hands. The mountains of laundry, and dusting! How she vehemently hated it! She learned that gardening was toil, never spoke of the outdoors with anything other than a scowl. ” bugs! dirt! sweat!”
She lived in that place of expectations. When her expectations were met she was content, when they were exceeded she was joyful, when they were not met, she was morose and bitter. She never forgot an insult or slight, she never forgave one either. She was very tolerant of my strange and eclectic friends. She had no great love of Catholics, but could be kind and attentive to a gay or trans gender with out batting an eye. Her love was a cool one. Never warm and effusive, but constant like a deep cold river from the mountains. I was 40 the first time she told me she loved me, and I knew she meant it for what it cost her to say it.
The little man in the middle is her son. The adored first child. Full of mischief and fun! He was a handful of gargantuan proportions! The stories she would tell about him! At 18 month old he turned the burners on the gas stove and singed off his eyebrows, eyelashes and bangs! He used to con the kids in the neighborhood out of their marbles, and sell them at the ten penny stores for sweets. Who would think looking into that cherubic face , that there lurked the heart of a pure con man! When this photo was taken , he had still not seen his father, and wouldn’t until he was almost 5. His Da you see was fighting in the South Pacific. That man grew up loved and spoiled by two women that dotted on him. He has a fierce temper, but forgives easily. He does not forget, however, and remembers more of the bad then the good. He is generous to a fault, and is the kind of friend who is always there when you need them. His love has grown warmer over the years. He is self absorbed, but he has been the center of focus for so many all of his life, it is not surprising. What is a surprise is that he is not unaware. His care is real and genuine. He can still pull a good con from time to time. Though he is not the most positive of people, his negativity is easily overlooked, by the love you hear in his concern.
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Do I carry their memories around with me? Sometimes I feel as though I do, I can see little bits and pieces of them in my days. I sit with my daughter who is named after my great grandmother, I smooth back the blanket on her bed that she made. I tell her stories about her. I give her my memories of her. My daughter wears my grandmothers apron while I am in the kitchen and I show her how to make bread the way I was shown. The line of my ancestors goes back and goes forward in a shifting patchwork of love and stories.
