I'm Baaaack

Ruth in pink pajamas

I had dinner last evening with a dear out-of-town friend. He's been following my cancer journey via emails and occasional phone conversations. During our conversation, he asked me what lessons I had learned from having had cancer. A useful question, as it required I stop and reassess what has been happening to me. And I came up with some lessons.
   Then this morning, I read Dylan's blog and was amazed at how profound and interesting it is. He's a marvelous writer, an astute observer, and truly captured the joy and challenge of the game. I felt instantly connected to Dylan. When cancer took over my life, I set aside some things--my blog being one. But I want to reconnect and so I'm back.
   So to get caught up-------My lessons from cancer were several. First, it brought me back again to my love and trust in God. It's so easy (at least for me) to loosen that bond when all is going well. "Look, God, no hands. I can manage life all on my own!" But I can't.
   Another lesson: On the visit with my oncologist after the biopsy and CT scan, he explained that I had an agressive carcinoma. He went through all the possibilities, then cocked his finger, pointed it at me, and said, "It's not your time." Gave me pause as I had been in a neutral position about my life. If it's my time, I thought, so be it. If not, that's okay too. But when the doctor said that, I realized that neutral was not a healthy position and I had to take a stand. I saw that his position was one of defeating cancer and he had aligned a team to do that. I figured I'd better get on board and so joined him and took that stance throughout the treatment.
   More lessons: I was raised to be not only healthy, but also independent. And suddenly I found myself in a position of needing LOTS of help. I was amazed at how quickly people responded. They were wonderful. Reminded me again of a lesson I learned from my darling daughter long ago. Mary was pregnant with Dallas when I visited her in Phoenix. We went to lunch. (I loved being able to take her to lunch.) When the bill arrived, she picked it up. I protested. Then she said, "Mom, let me have the blessing." And so I've again had to learn to set my ego aside and let others have the blessing.
   I also learned how beautiful our bodies are--whatever shape they're in. They are amazingly capable, and I don't know about you, but I had ignored mine for years. After each poisonous infusion, I watched my body struggle and fight to regain balance and health. So I'm better now at assisting rather than sabotaging it.
   I know there are lessons for me now that I'm healing. After the last infusion, when the lab results showed I was cancer free, I realized I had accomplished my goal and was left with "now what?" A downer. It took a while for me to figure out I was suffering from post-partum depression. So I've created some new goals to aspire to. The first is to regain my health. One of the biggest lessons ahead for me is patience. The doctor warned me it would take months, and I'm champing at the bit to be back to normal. It feels like I'm healing too slowly as I putter about and I need to constantly remind myself I'm on my way. Baby steps. One day at a time. And each day is better than the day before.
   The most wonderful lesson of all was to see how precious life is and how privileged I've been to have my family. God has truly blessed me with you all and I am deeply grateful. When my "Grands" (my grandchildren--for you are truly grand. The little ones are the "Greats" for they are that.)  I wrote this poem for them. It was published in The Friend magazine.
          I open my eyes to a new surprise,
          A present just for me.
          It's just my size and sure to fit,
          I'm pleased as I can be!
          What is this gift, so bright and new,
          So special in every way?
          Why don't you know? You get one too--
          A brand new shining day.
Enjoy it!!

The Gassaway Story

Grandpa Montgomery's mother was Martha Gassaway. The first Gassaway in America was Nicholas, born in London Town on March 11, 1634, the son of Thomas Gassaway and his wife Anne Collingwood. They lived in St. Margaret's Westminster Parish. St. Margaret's Church stands adjacent to Westminster Abbey. Sometimes the name is spelled Gasawaie which has a Flemish or Dutch flavour.The Collingwood family was an old heraldic one as was the Gassaway family.
     In 1649, Nicholas came to America with a Richard Owen who had a land grant from the King. Nicholas settled on South River in Anne Arundel County (Maryland) among the Puritans who had come from Virginia as Quakers.He became one of the early merchants of that area. In 1650, he applied for his land rights and over time accumulated over 1,000 acres of land. There is no record of his first wife, who became the mother of his two oldest children (Nicholas and Anne). After her death, he married Anne Besson in 1672. She was the daughter of Captain Thomas Besson and was only fourteen at the time of her marriage. Her father so loved Nicholas and was so pleased about the marriage that he gave them an additional 610 acres of land. Their children were John, Hester, Jane, Margaret, and Thomas.
     Nicholas became one of the outstanding Marylanders of his day and one of the wealthiest. He was active in the militia and had a  company of nineteen men. In a letter to Col. Burgess he wrote, "...we have noe orders but to Range and Defend the Plantations, the which we shall doe to the best of our skill." In 1687 he was commissioned a major.
     In a letter dated 25 March 1689, Nicholas Gassoway, alson with several others signed a letter directed to Col. William Digges in which they expressed their concern of eminent danger to the Protestant citizens. They wrote: "...wee have heard this day That Maj Ninian Beale is either engaged with the Piscattoway Indians or every minute in expectation to put in operation their wicked and malicious designe...wee remaine in a posture of defence for the generall safety of all..." After the ensuing rebellion led by Capt. Coode, Col Nicholas Gassaway was appointed one of the Committee of Twenty who governed Maryland until the arrival of a royal governor from England. (It seems that there was trouble between Catholic and Protestant settlers. Does anything ever change???)
     At his death, Nicholas left a large estate to his children that included twenty slaves, one servant, and more than 1320 acres of land. His request was that all but one of the slaves be freed. The one, a fellow who understood the work of the plantation, was to instruct the sons and after one year was to be freed. When I read that, I breathed a sigh of relief. Owning slaves did not sit well with me.
     Thanks to Mary for her hours spent on the genealogy research. She has all the information about the family all the way to the present. I think we have an amazing family. On one side we have two lines that go back in this country to the 17th century--long before the Revolutionary War. And we also have newcomers who arrived in the 19th century. Sounds like a true American mix to me.You can still find out family names sprinkled throughout Maryland and the South. Seems we've left footprints along the way.
 

Grandpa Montgomery

I know I said I'd write about the Gasaway side of the family, but I've been thinking about my Grandpa Montgomery, born Roscoe Lee in 1877. He always called himself Ross. My mother adored her father. He was a skinny little cheerful fellow who loved music, dancing, and baseball. Mother said he taught all of his children to dance by having them stand on his feet while he danced. Family reunions were usually held in someone's basement so we could dance. There was usually live music. I can't remember what kind but I know that about 10:00 at night, Grandpa would stand up and call out "Virginia Reel." We'd all line up, the music would start, and we'd dance. We kids loved those reunions. There was, besides wonderful food, a huge metal tub filled with ice and Uncle Carl's home-made root beer. No one checked to see how many you took. And there was home-made ice cream, gallons of it! Uncle Marlowe read poems he'd written and Uncle Roscoe and his wife Jiggs did crazy dances. My uncles would come up to me, bow, and ask for the next dance. I felt like a queen.
   Grandpa had a little Jack Russell he called "Blackie." I'm not sure why, as the dog wasn't black. This little dog grabbed Grandpa's trousers and hung on while Grandpa danced around the room, the dog swinging through the air.
   Grandpa loved baseball. Knew all the statistics and listened to the games on a beat up little radio. He was a dedicated Cubs fan. I remember going to visit and Grandma told me he was over at the sand lot. There he was, watching the kids play baseball. I asked him how he was. "Not so good today," he said. "Your Grandma and I were out dancing till near two o'clock last night." One year, Dick and I took him to Chicago to see the Cubs play. He had never seen them, never been in a big stadium. He was speechless with joy. He knew all the players, all their stats, and when the Cubs won, he said he thought he'd died and gone to heaven.
   Grandpa's father was Joseph Franklin Montgomery, born 1850 in Posey County, Indiana. In 1873, he married Martha Gasaway and there were five children: Roscoe Lee (Ross), Walter, Albert (Bert), Lewis, and Viola. Martha died in 1891. Grandpa was just fourteen. I think he and his brother Walter (then thirteen) went to live with their grandfather Samuel. The boys remembered that Grandpa Sam was strict about keeping the Sabbath. Walter told about trying to lift his grandpa's rifle off the rack and sneak out the door, but never got away with it. Sam would just point to the rack--never saying a word--and they knew it was no use trying to get that gun on a Sunday.
   Grandpa never spoke about his childhood and typical kid that I was, I never asked. I do know Grandpa and Grandma lived in Illinois around Pekin all their lives except for a short stay out side of Stevens Point, Wisconsin. (Good thing, as that's where Mother met Daddy, but I'll tell that story another time.) They rented a farm. My mother was nineteen and had a job as a cashier in a shop in town. During the week, she lived with her friend Genevieve in town. (I'm named for Gen's sister Ruth) Mother came home weekends. Uncle Carl (just a year older) lived at home and ran the farm. One night Mother and Carl sneaked out of a window to go into town to a dance. When they got home, Grandpa met them. Carl was twice his size, but Grandpa spanked Carl.
   I think our lives are made up of our stories, like a quilt. I tell you these stories so you can add them to your patchwork quilts. After I fill in the Gasaway side of the family, I'll tell more family stories. Maybe you can send me some of yours so we all can share.

The Montgomery Side

My maternal grandfather was Roscoe Lee Montgomery (he called himself Ross). The origin of the name Montgomery has an interesting history. Back in the days when the Roman Empire covered most of Europe, in the southern part of France in an area called Gaul, there was a mountain known as Gomer's Mountain. In the language of that day it was Mont Gomeri. The Lord in charge of the lands and the villages was eventually known as Lord Montgomeri. The name was later spelled Montgomerie and eventually became Montgomery. When William the Conquere chose men to accompany him and take positions of responsibility in his famous war with England, he chose Roger deMontgomerie who led the center of the invading army at Hastings, and was known as Roger the Great. The Montgomerys spread to Scotland at an early date beginning with Robert deMontgomerie who went there in the early 1100s. One of his successors, John Montgomerie of Eaglesham married Elizabeth, the daughter of Sir Hugh de Eglintoun, and was a hero in the battle of Otterburn in 1388.
     Some of the original Montgmerie families had remained in France and established themselves in Normandy, where they were the overseers of Mont Saint Michel, the French fortress which protected France for centuries against the invading ships of England. The Montgomery Castle is still standing at Ponterson, near the Normany Coast. The unfortunate story of Montgomery, a Count then occupying the castle at Ponterson is still told and will always be an important part of the history of France.
   On the occasion of the marriage of his sister, Marguerite, with the duke of Savoie, Henry II, King of France, gave a large feast. There were all kinds of sports as entertainment, and after the jousting matches had ceased, King Henry was not quite satisfied. He wanted a chance to joust with Count Montgomery. Queen Catherine and others tried to dissuade him, but the King was obstinate and insisted he have his way. During the joust, the lance of Count Montgomery fatally injured the King, and he died on the 9th of July, seven days after the celebration, in the year 1559.
   Although Montgomery was never held responsible for what obviously was an accident, the Queen never forgave him. She finally got her revenge when Montgomery was captured along with other Protestants, who were called Huegenots. She had him executed. She is the same queen, the infamouis Catherine de Medici, who ordered the Massacre of the Huguenots at St. Bartholomew's Church on Augut 14, 1572. After that time, the Montgomery family, along with other Protestants left France and settled in England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. (There were a LOT of Montgomerys.) It was from Ulster in North Ireland that most of the early Montgomery families came to America. (So I AM Irish!)
   The first Montgomery ancester that we know about in America is Robert Montgomery, born about 1780 in Georgia. We don't know much about his life in Georgia other than he was a school teacher and attended the Presbyterian Church. His brother James and sister Martha remained in Georgia, but Robert (who was called Robin) moved to Gibson County, Indiana. Soon several other families from Georgia moved there as well. Among them was the Marvel family with their children, including their daughter Patience. Robin often visited the Marvel family. One of the stories that has been passed down is that one morning Robin followed the girls, Patience and Comfort, to the milking gap, where seated upon a stump, he made himself useful by holding a calf by the ears while Patience milked its mother. Suddenly he said, "Patia, will you milk my cows?" Patience replied curtly, "No, Robin, I will not milk your cows." There was silence for a time while Patience thought the request over. She considered Robin's good qualities and her heart softened. "Say that again, Robin."
   "Say what?"
   "What you said before."
   Robin repeated his question.
   "Yes, Robin, I will milk your cows." And so preparations began for a wedding. They were married April 30, 1813 by the Methodist Curcuit riding minister Rev. Benjamin Edge. This was said to be the first marriage in the Black River Basin in the Indiana Territory. They made their home in Smith Township, Posey County, Indiana.
   Robert fought in the battle of Tippecanoe. He also fought in some of the Indian Wars and was a soldier in the War of 1812. Robert and Patience Marvel Montgomery were the parents of 11 children. (William; Prettyman; John; Elizabeth; Nancy; Samuel; James; Lavina; Robert, Jr.; George; Thomas) We are descended from Samuel who married Phoebe Elizabeth Pruitt. The Pruitt family came to Indiana from Kentucky in 1820. They had lived in the Carolinas previously. Phoebe's grandfather Simon Williams, Jr. served in a civilian capacity during the Revolutionary War and his service has been accredited by the DAR.(in case that kind of thing is important to you. I'm not quite as interested as perhaps I should be. I remember my father [Boppey] saying that ancestors were like potatoes in that they are buried in the ground. But I digress...) Although Samuel had to sign his will with his mark (he was illiterate) he left a sizeable fortune for his children. He was probably dyslexic, as his family was well educated.
   Samuel and Phoebe Elizabeth Pruitt Montgomery were the parents of ten children. The fourth child was Joseph Franklin Montgomery who married Martha Gasaway. They had five children: Roscoe Lee, Walter, Lewis Samuel, Albert, Viola, Joseph Franklin, and Elizabeth.
   Roscoe Lee (who called himself Ross) married Dorothy Christina Danner (check the last blog). They were the parents of: Carl, Marguerite Marie (Nonnie), Irene, Marlowe, Roscoe Henry, Dorothy, Mildred Louise (who died very young), and Selma Juanita who was always known as Juanita. Aunt Neetie (Juanita) never allowed her first name to be spoken aloud!
   Next time I'll write about the Gasaway side--the maternal side.
   No pictures this time. Sorry. Just a lot of names and dates. But our histories are more important than we realize, imprinted in our DNA. I have been drawn to Mont Saint Michel ever since seeing a picture of it when I was in primary school. I finally was able to go a few years ago. Rented a car in Paris and drove through Normandy, arriving at Mont Saint Michel in the last afternoon of Christmas Eve. Went to midnight mass and wept through the entire service. The same was true of St. Bartholomew's in Paris. I had never heard of the church, but while in Paris I found it one day while wandering around. I went in and sat in a pew. Someone was practicing the organ. I wept. Have no explanation for my responses to some of the places I've gone. Like how do you explain Mongolia??? But we were once tribal people, completely dependent upon the land upon which we lived. That may seem strange to us now with all of our technology, but that sophistacated "stuff" is a mighty thin coat. Underneath we are still homeo sapien, surviving and doing what we can to enjoy the process. I'm mighty satisfied with how my process is going. Hope you are too.   

Grandma Dolly

Grandma Dolly

It's my maternal grandmother's turn--Nonnie's mother. She was named Dorothy Christina Danner, but called Dolly because of her big brown eyes. In the picture she's about 16.

Dolly was born in Lincoln, Illinois in 1884. Her father Christian "Henry" Danner was born in Mt. Pulaski, Illinois in 1840. His father Christian Danner was born in Wurtenburg, Germany in 1810. Christian and his brother Andrew came to this country in 1834.  Christian went first to Pittsburgh where he worked in blacksmith shops and carriage works for six years. There he married Eva Smith. (She died in 1854 leaving four children: Andrew, Henry--Grandma's father, John, and Kate).  Christian moved his family to Mt. Pulaski and with his brother Andrew set up the first blacksmith shop in Mt Pulaski. In 1855, Christian married Dorothy Birkhardt who had come from Wurtemburg, Germany. (She died in 1873, leaving five children: Mary, Christena, Christian, George, and Gottleib.) The brothers built the first frame houses in the town. There were no roads or bridges in the county and prices for labor were low. A horse could be shoed for $1.50. At the close of the Mexican war, Christian went to St. Louis and bought a quantity of damaged iron. He then began manufacturing heavy wagons which he sold to the men who were going to California to mine for gold. He also made the first iron plows in Mt. Pulaski. He was undoubtedly the finest blacksmith in the area. Son Henry Danner became a farmer. He was also a goldsmith and eventually owned a jewelry store in Springfield, Illinois. His home backed up to the home of Abraham Lincoln. Rumor has it their dogs ran through a hole in the backyard fence.
   Henry had six children: Dorothy, Mary, Julius, Adolph, George, and Fred. I remember my mother speaking fondly of her Uncle Jewel. She said that after a family dinner, he went around the table to each of the children. He'd put his arms under their armpits and shake them up and down so they'd have plenty of room for dessert. I believe Uncle Adolph had a humped back and died quite young. Uncle George joined the Merchant Marine. He had what Grandpa called "the wanderlust." Once, in La Crosse, Wisconsin (I was about six), Mother and I were walking through a little park on our way home when Mother stopped. "Uncle George!" she called. A tall gray-haired man stopped and they chatted. I remember hearing her say he must come home with us. He said no, he'd come later. He never came. However, when he retired, he went to Pekin to be with Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma said George and Grandpa sat on the porch and talked and talked until the day George died.
    Dolly's mother was Anna Marie Reinhardt, but I always heard her called Mary.

That's Mary Danner on the left. The girl squinting in back is my mother--Nonnie. I don't know who the other two people are.

   Mother always spoke lovingly about Grandma Danner. (She is one of the "Marys" I named my Mary after. The other is my sister Mary Ann.) Mother said her grandmother Mary Danner had "healing hands." Every spring she came to the house with a tonic they all had to take. It was a horrible mixture that even included turpentine! She also had them wear what Mother called "an asaphidadee" (that a phonetic spelling as Mother never really knew what it was officially called). They wore it next to their skin. Mother says that when they were playing and got warm it had a strange smell. I'm sure there was garlic in it as even the smell of garlic was supposed to have a therapeutic effect.

Dolly married Ross Lee Montgomery. Here's their young family. Carl in the back. Mother is on the right (so sweet!!). Irene is on the left. Marlowe is seated on Grandma's lap. The picture was taken about 1910. (That would make Mother six.)

And there were more children....the two new little ones were Roscoe and Dorothy. Eventually Juantia (called Neetie) was born. One child died when she was two. Grandma told me she never got over the loss of that child and sometimes would find she had set a place at the table for her.

Here's the family at Grandma and Grandpa's fiftieth wedding anniversary. Back row: Marlowe, Irene, Marguerite, Dorothy, Roscoe. Front row: Juanita, Grandpa, Grandma, Carl (he was my favorite uncle). And as long as I've mentioned his name, I'll tell you a favorite story about him. It was the year I was a senior in college and World War II was still going on. In those days couples did not go "steady" and I was corresponding with a lot of boys who were in the war. One of them was Hadley, a very wealthy boy--a real southern gentleman my Mother was fond of. He was on leave so I was going to visit him and his family in Arkansas. But first, I went to Pekin where Mother was visiting with Carl and Ann. Uncle Carl had a marvelous garden (had learned from his mother who was the BEST gardener). Every evening, he and I went into the kitchen where he made us sandwiches of home made bread, thin slices of his Bermuda onions, and those long yellow peppers. We'd eat our onion sandwiches and talk. The last evening I was there, he asked me if I planned to take a ring from this young man (agree to marry). I said heavens no! He leaned forward and whispered, "Good. Now, you just take your time. There's no need to rush into marriage. You've got all the time in the world." Then he looked around. "Now don't you tell your mother I told you that. She asked me to talk to you because she thinks you're too fussy and will end up being an old maid." I loved that man!
   My sister Mary Ann named Grandma Montgomery our "fat grandma." Grandma laughed and said, "Who do you love?" And we'd shout, "Our fat grandma." She never minded. By the time I knew her she was not a good cook--probably burned out from raising such a large family. She was not interested in housekeeping either. But she had a magnificent garden and made the most beautiful quilts. She made all of her granddaughters (and there were many) little quilts. Mary Ruth has the one she made for me. My mother's relationship with her mother was strained. I never knew why. I only know that when Mother got a letter from her mother, she was angry and cried. Grandma was not exactly a warm and fuzzy person. When Grandma died, my Mother wept and in those few moments, the relationship was healed.

Here are three generations: Ruth, Marguerite, Dorothy Christina. Taken in 1947.

Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary

   Grandma died April 1, 1956 and is buried in Pekin, Illinois.

   Next time I'll do Grandpa Montgomery.

My Grandma Hammer

Her name was Laura Olsdatter Anderson and she was born on a farm in Norway February 1st, 1870. Her father was Ole Anderson (1831), her mother Engeborg Andersdatter (1842). Ole emigrated to America in 1869 and set up a tailoring shop in St. Paul, Minnesota. When Laura was fifteen months old, Ole sent for his young wife and daughter. Engeborg was in poor health and died when Laura was just two years old. Poor Ole. He had no idea how to raise a little girl and so Laura was raised by two"aunties." I remember meeting them when I was very young. They lived in a large duplex with lots of windows and heavy lace curtains. They gave me a penny to go to the little nearby store and buy a sweet. I thought they were very good mothers.

When Laura graduated from school she was hired as a "copy preparer" by West Publishing Company in St. Paul. They published legal and medical books. She met Ludvig while he was studying at the United Church Seminary, majoring in Theological Studies. One of their favorite activites was ice skating. (I have copies of many of their letters--they are sweet. It's obvious they were very much in love.) They married October 27, 1896--right after Ludvig's graduation.

Ludvig was assigned two rural churches in South Dakota. It was there they raised their family: Einar Oswald, Harold Edward, Sigmund Immanuel, Clement Victor, Rolf Walter, and Laura Louise.

This picture was taken in 1903. Ole is seated in the middle. The last row: Einar and Harold. Middle row: Ludvig, Rolf, Ole, Laura. Bottom row: Clement, Laura, Sigmund.

This picture was probably taken in 1913. Standing: Rolf, Sigmund, red-haired Clement. Seated: Einar, Laura, Laura Louise, Ludvig, and dapper Harold.

The year the banks closed, I think it was 1934, we lived with my grandparents in Faribault, Minnesota. They had lost all their savings and so we were able to help with expenses. The little brick house is now a National Treasure, but then it was just home. I think it was hard on my mother as Grandpa would say, "Oh, let Marguerite do that. She's young and strong." He pampered grandma--always had and always would. But I loved living there. Grandma was my first piano teacher (she taught all of her children to play the piano. I have fond memories of my father sitting at the piano, head thrown back, pounding out The Mareilles. He always went  back to the beginning when he made a mistake. I never did hear the ending.) Grandma taught me how to knit and I still have the little bone knitting needles. (She taught all of her children to knit, crochet, sew on a button, and darn a sock.) She was a remarkable woman and a good role model for me. A tiny thing, I doubt she ever weighed more than a hundred pounds. She was a terrible cook, fair housekeeper, but she loved to read and felt it important to keep informed about what was going on in the world. She and Grandpa were always loving with each other. They took a nap after lunch (which they called dinner). I remember peeking into their bedroom and seeing them stretched out side by side on their three-quarter bed, hands clasped, eyes closed. Makes me teary-eyed just remembering.

   There was one thing Grandma cooked that I loved. They were a molasses cookie she called "Mary Anns"-- strong, and dark covered with her version of frosting--powdered sugar and water. I still have never found a recipe that tastes as good as they did.

   It was the depression and Grandma's house had been "marked." Bums came daily. Grandma never turned anyone away. She always had some small chore for them. When finished, they sat on the back screened porch. Grandma brought them a basin of hot water, soap, and a clean towel. She always said a prayer, blessing the food, the man, and his family. Her  voice was frail, high and soft. The men bowed their heads reverently, as if they were again boys with a loving mother.

 On summer nights, we kids all met under the corner streetlight and played Truth or Dare. About 8:30, Grandma came onto the porch and called me in to practice. I always had mixed feelings for as much as I liked being with the kids, I treasured sitting beside her on the paino bench playing the simple tunes she taught me. There was always a little moral lesson tucked in between the notes. Grandma belonged to the WCTU--Women's Christian Temperance Union, which was against strong drink. But she held her beliefs gently. I remember when my children were very small, Uncle Lee and Aunt Laura brought Grandma to visit. It was a hot summer afternoon. Grandma sighed and said, "It's so hot, a cold beer would taste so good." Dick and Uncle Lee raced to the refrigerator. Grandma drank lemonade.   

   One of my favorite stories came from Uncle Sigmund. When he was about ten he built a telegraph in the cellar, the wires ending in the kitchen. Grandma learned the Morse Code so he'd have someone to send messages to. Let the cooking and cleaning wait. It was activities like this that were important.

   I was her first grandchild, and my second name is hers--Laura. They lived on a very limited pension, but she sent me birthday gifts--books from their library. Oliver Twist, Tale of Two Cities, Wordsworth's poems, Milton. The books were well-worn, for all of her children could read before they entered school. By the time my father entered first grade he was in the middle of "The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire."
   Grandpa adored her. We all did. She flew to my wedding--her first flight (she was 77) and arrived carrying a book about the Communist Manifesto. I was shocked. "One needs to keep up with what's happening," she said. She was suffering from a mild dementia and sometimes got lost trying to find her way home from the market, but she was still reading the latest books. She hemmed the slip I wore under my bridal dress and gave me a precious little seed-pearl ring she had received from her father on her sixteenth birthday. Bad cook, poor housekeeper, strong mother, loving wife, she left a lasting legacy.

    

Ludvig Erickson & Laura Olsdatter Anderson Hammer on their 50th wedding anniversary, 1946.

More Pieces

I've missed doing my blog. It gave me a feeling of being connected. I'm not yet ready to do the one about my Grandma Hammer (to follow the one about Grandpa Hammer), but wanted to do something. So, here are some more of my pieces. (They're dated, but.........)

The large chorale I sing with was giving a major concert. We had invited two other ensembles to perform with us, had a full symphony orchestra, and were being televised. This was the big time.

     The house lights dimmed and the concertmaster came on stage and bowed to the appreciative audience. Everyone hushed and he nodded to the oboe player who took the cue. Clearly she played her 'A' and the orchestra tuned. The concert was brilliant and right on key.

     It's the oboe who sets the key because it can't be tuned like violins and timpani. Every group has its 'oboe.' In my family we have two, my niece's eighteen-month old son and my 87-year old mother.

(Another)

I have a veritable garden of friends who need watering and definitely lots of sunshine. I'm not going to take this any further for I'm not sure what to do about pruning, fertilizing, or weeds.

(And yet another)

I needed a quick centerpiece for my table one day so I cut some English ivy from my garden and stuck it in a pretty bowl of water. Added a lovely touch to my table setting.

     Several days later I went to throw it out and noticed it had roots, tiny delicate white threads already drawing nurturance from the water. I immediately planted it and put it in a sunny window. I've kept it as an object lesson, a daily reminder to keep putting out roots to draw sustenance from my surroundings whatever they are; to keep living and flourishing like the garden ivy.

(Gift pieces from others)

My daughter in her quiet wisdom sent me a card: "Bloom where you are planted." Good advice for someone like me who has been transplanted over and over and over again. I'm blooming as best I know how. And I get comfort from some words of a Leonard Cohen song: "Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in eveything. It's how the light gets in."