Difference in religion

In the Midwest, especially up until the 1980s or so (and still even a bit today), a powerful demarcation existed between several Christian denominations. Pentecostals were primarily African-Americans. Fundamentalist non-denominational Christians—or “born agains”—were white fanatics. Roman Catholics were the other, as well, with their priests, monks, nuns and popes. Presbyterians, Methodists, Episcopalians and Lutherans were normal. At least that’s how it was in my family. We were Lutheran—German Lutheran—from my father’s German roots. My parents were married in the Methodist Church that my mother and her family loosely attended. Once married, however, she converted to Lutheran, as this was then considered her wifely duty.

When my mom’s oldest friends became Jehovah’s Witnesses, there was a kind of hushed acceptance, except it was weird that they no longer celebrated Christmas or Easter. As a child, I had no idea what that was all about, but they were still our friends. That’s all that mattered to me. My father—a police officer—also worked with a Jewish man, and our families participated in several activities together. However, I recall no specific instances where it came up, living in happy ignorance that the Hesses were simply our friends. (I was very glad of this, as Mrs. Hess owned the local soft-serve ice cream stand.)

Growing up, religious difference was accompanied by some prejudice. I recall being in eighth grade and making a comment in drafting class that went along the lines of, “You know about some Catholics.” Fortunately, for me there was a lesson here. The Roman Catholic teacher heard me. “What about ‘some Catholics’?” he growled. Since I was simply repeating something I’d heard without really knowing anything Roman Catholic doctrine, I was caught. The teacher then made a couple of strong comments that I don’t recall, and concluded with “It’s like saying Protestants are ‘holier than thou.’” (I do think that this interaction transformed the way I thought and felt about other people and their faiths, as well as discrimination in general.)

Oddly, this activity occurred long after Roman Catholicism entered my own immediate family. In 1972, my great-grandmother Leta moved into Sacred Heart Home for the Aged, a Roman Catholic senior residence. In those days, they were called “old folks’ homes.” She was in her late 70s and realized that she would need care and support soon.

However, there were severe separations between Roman Catholics and other Christians during that time, especially in suburban Ohio. While she could watch her beloved Billy Graham and other such preachers on TV, she was prevented from joining her home’s Christian community. In 1975 or so, she informed the family that she was going to convert to Roman Catholicism.

As I was still a child—but one with big ears, I add—I recall more a sense of dread and maybe a little betrayal than acceptance of her decision. She wanted to go to church regularly, participate in a Christian community and take communion. I don’t think she ever noted that she wanted to be a Roman Catholic, and floating between my parents, grandparents and anyone else involved in the conversation was the word “convenient.” And it also seems to me that no one at the Home was actively recruiting here. All of this made it more palatable. Ironically, Leta’s son Dale and his family were Roman Catholic, and no one ever talked about that. So she converted and became a part of her residence’s Christian community. When she passed away in 1984, her priest officiated at the service. No one batted an eye.

My Birth Day

Today, December 28, is my birthday. I was born the day after Leta’s eighth husband Richard Eckman died. They had been married only three short years of marriage. He was sixty-six (66) years old. They lived in Toledo, Ohio.

On December 27, in the middle of the night, Richard rose from bed to use the toilet. While in there, he had a fatal heart attack. Leta either heard him or wondered why he had not returned to bed. When he didn’t respond to her calls, she got up from bed and found him lying on the floor, as cold as the tiles.

How she felt at that moment, I can only imagine: immediate despair; a “not again” anguish (Robert Fields, husband number five also died of a heart attack in their home); or did she simply take a deep breath and call for an ambulance with incredible calm?

Getting dressed, the ambulance, telephoning both of their children, the funeral arrangements, the funeral, the mourning, the empty house—all these things filled her next few days. And along came Jerry—me, that is.

Less than 24 hours after Richard’s death, my mother went into labor. Basically, it was near the end of the day. Unlike the previous day’s shock, everyone expected this activity. My parents made the phone calls with nearly everyone still awake. Vivian took my three-year-old brother. (My maternal grandmother had four teenagers still at home and a full-time job. While she couldn’t take on a child for several days, she could meet them at the hospital.)

A helpful explanation here: I am the second oldest of my generation, my previously mentioned brother being the oldest. My parents are both the oldest in their family, married and had two children before the next sibling (my mom’s next oldest sister) married. (Incidentally, my sister is fourth oldest, nearly tied with our oldest cousin). If that wasn’t enough impetus to bring the grandparents and anyone else who could be awake to the hospital for the event, there was also the factor that my brother was born with severe allergies. He had extremely sensitive skin and required certain kinds of physical attention. (There was most distinctly the nasty smelling goop they had to bathe him in.)

My mother recalls a small complication during her labor, but then I was born—boy number two—at about 5:30am on December 28.

At that time, it was hospital practice for the mother and baby to remain in the hospital for five days. While we had many visitors (after all, I was born during Christmas break from school for all my aunts and uncles), my mother remembers that Leta was with her nearly all day every day.

In the midst of death and sadness for her, Leta sought my mother’s company and the life—mine—that had just begun.  And to my knowledge, thus far, she never married again.

A Christmas story, part three

The week before Christmas saw only a little indication of the impending holiday in Leta’s son Dale’s household--a poinsettia from a friend and some paper snowflakes that his two little girls had made. While the family—including the extended family—mourned the recent death of Dale and his wife Kathryn’s little boy, Leta’s daughter Vivian had instigated a few measures for the holiday, particularly for her young nieces. While Kathryn’s sisters and mother provided the soothing companionship necessary for the grieving mother, Vivian and Leta did the Christmas shopping and holiday baking.

Vivian recognized that allowing her brother’s home to become void of the holiday would lead young, impressionable minds to take on the blame. Losing their brother and observing and experiencing their mother’s great grief was enough. While Vivian accepted Kathryn’s own deep mourning, having had her own experiences of child-loss through a number of miscarriages, taking care of the little ones was still essential. Leta gladly partnered with her daughter to do what she could.

On this particular evening, Leta took Dale and his five-year-old daughter Connie to pick out a Christmas tree, accompanied by Claud, the man she was dating. When they arrived with the tree, they found Kathryn sitting in her usual spot in the dark living room, staring into her sorrow. She started at their sudden blast of Christmas joy, her melancholy transforming into fury. After several carefully placed glares, she turned her attention to Connie and escorted the child up the stairs to bed, taking all of the sound with her. All this happened so quickly, that the others barely had time to register their surprise. Dale and Claud were still standing in the doorway with the Christmas tree, and Leta stood slightly to the side, her own understanding of Kathryn’s harsh reaction growing quickly.

Finally, Dale spoke.

“If you’ll help me set this up before you go, I’d appreciate it,” he said.

Leta was silent, wrapped in the fury of Kathryn’s intimations.

“Ma?’ Dale said and then repeated more forcefully, cutting through the bonds.

“Of course,” Leta agreed. “Before we go, let’s not forget the food in the car. That beef stew will make a good supper for you tomorrow.”

“It was delicious,” Claud gushed.

Claud had met them at the tree lot, and followed them in his own automobile. After rearranging the furniture to accommodate the tree and securing it in its stand, Leta and Claud headed out. Once in the car, Claud made a suggestion.

“I don’t know about you, but I sure could use a drink” he said. “Is there a nice place around here?”

“I’m tired, Claud,” Leta replied. “I just want to go home.”

“Are you sure?” he questioned. “Although I’m not entirely sure what actually went on just now, I did note a kind of disdain in Dale’s wife’s attitude toward you.”

“Kathryn’s grieving, Claud. Her boy just died. It’s Christmas-time, too, and she can only act happy within limits. I think tonight she reached her limit.”

“But Leta,” he persisted. “There was something else. Even I felt something. Dale couldn’t get us out of there fast enough. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone with you.”

“No,” she disagreed, “it wasn’t you specifically. It’s me.”

“What did you do? You bought them a Christmas tree. You’ve spent hours shopping for her. You make them food all the time. What could she possibly have against you?”

“I think she blames me.”

“For the death of her little boy?”

“I think this is about her belief that God is punishing her—for my sins,” she explained.

“Leta, that’s crazy talk,” Claud cautioned.

“Maybe,” she answered. “It’s not like I’m the best person in the world. None of them think I was a good mother. And I have led a different kind of life than what most people agree is acceptable. When Dale and Kathryn first started courting, everything was fine. I had Vivian, and Don was just a baby. I looked like the perfect grandmother.”

“You are the perfect grandmother,” he said.

“Please, don’t interrupt,” she urged. “I’m telling you something here.”

Claud leaned back in his seat to listen. She spoke evenly, staring at the headlight’s reflection on the road.

“Kathryn was a sweet girl, a little protected from the world maybe, naïve, but cheerful, and Dale needed that. Everyone around him was so serious all the time—his father, grandmother definitely, even Vivian. Kathryn, though, had an infectious laugh that ran through from her belly into her head. Dale used to try to make her laugh, which was quite a challenge for him, but he did. And they laughed and laughed. But her family didn’t approve, not of Dale—they really liked him—but of me. I had quite a reputation then. Most women who were unmarried are supposed to follow a certain way of living, and instead I liked to go out for a drink and meet people. I even had a job. And I was divorced. They’re Roman Catholic, you know, and divorce is a sin. They never said anything directly, but they were very obvious about their distaste for me, and they warned her. Connecting with my family was a step into heartbreak. That was hard on Kathryn. She really loved Dale, and he loved her. He was so afraid to propose to her, but I encouraged him. He deserved his happiness, and so did she. Plus, I do love a love story.

“He did it the proper way. First, he spoke to her father, did all the right things, talking about his job, his aspirations, his morality and how much he adored her and wanted to spend his life taking care of her. The old man was skeptical, so Dale played his ace. He offered to convert. It wasn’t much of a conversion. He wasn’t very religious to begin with, so becoming Catholic was just fine for him. And the father agreed. Once Dale became a Catholic, he would have his blessing. Kathryn accepted the proposal. Again, Dale wanted to do this right and read in a magazine about giving a woman a ring for the engagement, so he and I went to the jewelry store, and he bought one for her. He didn’t have much money, but it was nice, and she was thrilled.

“But all of them—her entire family—believed that sinners get punished, and my sins could be visited on anyone in the family. And while I think Kathryn and I developed a fine relationship, that fear that God would punish has always lingered. And now it seems like maybe I have.”

“That’s nonsense,” Claud said definitively.

“It’s what they believe,” she noted.

“What about you?”

“Sometimes, I do. God is just, Claud.”

They drove in silence for a few moments.

“Jesus Christ! I definitely need a drink now,” Claud finally declared, “and you do, too.”

On Christmas Day, Claud proposed to her, and she readily agreed, and the day after Vivian’s birthday, they drove to Angola, Indiana where they were married by a justice of the peace.

THE END

A Christmas story, part two

It was a particularly difficult Christmas, particularly for Leta’s daughter-in-law Kathryn and son Dale. On the day before Thanksgiving their only son died. Kathryn had fallen into a deep state of mourning; it was all she could do to get up in the morning and fulfill the most basic needs of her young daughters. Mostly, she sat in the dark living room, staring into regret and loss. She had no sense of the holiday, even as her little girls, ages two and five, began to fear that Santa Claus was going to pass them by this year. While Dale struggled with his own sense of loss, he tried to respect his wife’s deep sadness, hold his family together and keep moving forward.

Kathryn’s sisters and mother took on the primary task of housekeeping and childcare. Leta and Vivian provided meals and special needs. One evening, after Kathryn had gone to bed, they sat with Dale, who had just started thinking about how to reintroduce Christmas into his home. His older daughter Connie, in particular, had noted with no little concern the absence.

Always one to provide assistance where needed, Vivian offered, with her mother’s participation, to manage the Christmas shopping and wrapping. Leta agreed immediately.

Dale, Leta noticed, had risen in his chair during Vivian’s offer, and she could practically hear him accepting the kind offer with his next breath.

“Of course,” Leta added, “you need to talk it over with Kathryn.”

“Of course,” Vivian concurred.

By this time, Dale was nearly beside himself with the prospect.

“Thank you. I will. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, and I’ll give you a call, Viv,” he said.

“That’s fine,” Vivian agreed.

With this in place, Dale eagerly consumed the rest of the cookies that Vivian had brought, as if he were a 12-year-old boy.

The next morning he telephoned Vivian to inform her that Kathryn consented. Whether she did this immediately or after some persuasion by her husband and thoughtful consideration, Leta never knew. What she did know was that despite her current grief, her daughter-in-law was a loving mother, and that love for her daughters would not allow her to let them suffer for her own desolation.

Over the subsequent week, she and Vivian had a marvelous time shopping. Having only a son at home and her own heartbreak over having no additional children as a lingering companion, Vivian pursued the task with relish. For the first time in her life, she was actually looking at toys and clothes for girls. Her delight in the activity fueled Leta’s own spirited temperament, and they spent hours perusing all the many options in the department stores and other shops. During this week of furious activity, Vivian had even had the appropriate conversations with her nieces to learn what their own wishes were.

While all this was going on, Leta’s spirits were also on the rise, and in short order she had her own home decorated and commenced her own holiday baking. Her husband Claud caught the contagious glow, as well, and made himself quite useful to her.

A week before Christmas, Kathryn agreed to have a tree, and Leta offered to pay for it. So one evening, she, Claud, Dale and five-year-old Connie went tree shopping while Kathryn stayed home with little Chrissie who was running a slight fever. When they returned with it, Kathryn was sitting in the dark living room, sipping a glass of wine, caught up in her melancholy. If it had made any impact on her sensibility, she might have even regretted allowing the tree or any indication of celebration into her house. The blusteriness of their arrival shocked her. When they banged into the house and flicked on the lights, she jumped from her seat, as if the cold wind slapped her right in the face. First, she glared at Dale, then the tree and, gasped at Claud who was helping Dale with the tree, and finally with a malevolence that nearly slapped back, glared at her mother-in-law, who had dared to bring her paramour into their home life. Leta felt immediately uncomfortable.

She understood the look. It was blame. Filled with customary Roman Catholic guilt at the death of her son, Kathryn was, without saying a word, blaming her. The sins of the grandmother were waged on little Sonny. When Kathryn met and married Dale, Leta was a single woman with a reputation for being too intimate with men to whom she was not married. Kathryn also held an assumption that Leta was a poor parent to Dale and Vivian, having subjected them to her indelicate lifestyle for several years before abandoning them altogether. These sorts of sinful choices, according to Kathryn’s faith, would create repercussions for Leta’s family, and with the death of her only son, as well as Vivian’s childbearing problems, Kathryn felt in her grief that this must be the punishment.

And now, to add more injury, the wicked, scandalous woman had brought her current companion du jour into a house of mourning.

Dale and Claud stood in the doorway with the tree, realizing that something was troubling Kathryn, but not knowing what.

“Mommy,” Connie said, gently taking her mother’s hand, “isn’t it pretty? Grandma Fields bought it for us. Now we can have our own Christmas tree, so Santa Claus will know where to put our presents.”

Kathryn looked at her older daughter’s glowing face with a tear in her eye. “That’s right, darling. You have been a good girl, and Santa is sure to visit you this year.”

Connie threw her arms around her mother. “I promise, Mommy, to be good forever and ever!”

“I thought we could put it right in the front window, as usual,” Dale suggested to his wife. “What do you think?”

“That would be fine,” Kathryn agreed.

Then she rose.

“It’s time I put this good little girl to bed.”

She never even said hello to Leta or Claud. After grabbing Connie’s hand firmly, she escorted her daughter up the stairs while the other adults watched.

END OF PART 2

A Christmas story, part one

By early November, Claud had still not proposed, and Leta wondered if he would. Even her daughter Vivian, always so unintrusive, began to question the future of this relationship, asking as politely as she could one morning while they were making themselves new dresses for Christmas. Leta had found a pattern she particularly liked, a style that she believed would flatter her daughter’s curvy figure. Vivian was so pleased that she decided to adapt the pattern to make a similar dress for her mother. Subsequently, they got together twice a week for fittings and to sew. Both enjoyed the time together.

“How is Claud?” Vivian asked, tacking a sleeve.

“Fine,” Leta answered, pinning on a bit of lace to the bodice. “Do you like this?”

Vivian took a good look at the dress and the final product of the future. “Pretty.”

Vivian had a couple of pins in her mouth, so Leta hoped this would be the end of the conversation. A few moments later, Vivian spoke again.

“You two have been courting for how many months now?” she asked.

“Since May,” she answered. Clearly, they were going to have some kind of conversation, in spite of her covert distraction from the subject.

“And you see each other…?”

“Two or three times a week is all.”

“And you like him?”

“He makes me laugh.”

Having said this, Leta remembered a perfectly good joke and chortled to herself. It was too salacious to share with her more prudent daughter.

“Is that what you want in your life, Mom?” Vivian questioned. “Someone to make you laugh?”

Leta paused a moment, realizing that, yes, this is what she needed in her life at the time—a few smiles, jokes, laughter and simple friendliness from a man.

“Now that I think about it,” she answered, “yes, dear, I think that a little laughter, a walk in the park and a pleasant meal companion every now and then is exactly what I want right now.”

Vivian stopped sewing and looked hard at her, finally taking a deep breath and returning to her work. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want,” Leta repeated firmly. “Are you finished with the sewing machine?”

Vivian never brought the subject up again. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to, for only a week later, Leta’s four-year old grandson, the second child of her son and daughter-in-law, took ill quite suddenly and died on the day before Thanksgiving.

They were all devastated, most notably, of course, her daughter-in-law Kathryn. While the immediate days were spent on the funeral with family and friends about offering their sympathies, presence and food, by the beginning of December the reality set in.

Although Leta and Vivian spent time with Kathryn, who was still mother to two other children, one in kindergarten and the other a toddler, they found themselves pushed aside in favor of Kathryn’s own sisters and omnipresent mother. Truthfully, Leta felt uncomfortable around her daughter-in-law’s family. Staunch Roman Catholics, they seemed extremely judgmental of her, as a divorced woman with two additional late husbands. And Leta also knew that there was still a lingering disapproval that Kathryn married her son Dale, even after he converted to Roman Catholicism.

Baby-sitting and child-care duties fell on Kathryn’s sisters and companionship to the grieving mother was taken up by her own mother. For their part, Leta and Vivian prepared meals and helped keep the house clean, but they always seemed to be, at least to Leta, interlopers. If she had her druthers, she would have become simply a more frequent visitor, rather than a caregiver, but Vivian’s natural inclination was to take care of others, and so they were there.

One mid-December evening, when Dale was home, the three of them were sitting in his barren living room. Kathryn had put the children to bed and taken to her own, professing a headache. They sipped coffee and nibbled a few early cookies Vivian made—sugar walnut cookies, her specialty. Dale picked up a cookie, and sighed with great melancholy.

“Here it is,” he pronounced, “the only hint in this entire house that Christmas is only two weeks away.”

Leta herself was surprised by the comment. She had barely noticed the growing Christmas festivities herself. Sure, she had been shopping with Vivian and even purchased most of the gifts she would be sharing with her children and grandchildren, but she had done all this in a kind of stupor, without fully registering that they were well into the holiday season. Vivian, of course, was in the midst of decorating her home, but Leta had not removed one box of decorations from the closet for her own, and she hadn’t once considered her holiday baking.

“I don’t know how we’re going to do this,” Dale continued. “Kathryn hasn’t even acknowledged the season, and today, Connie asked me if Santa Claus would come to a house without a Christmas tree.”

Having said this, he dropped more deeply into his seat.

Vivian looked at her mother then turned to her brother.

“We can do the shopping for you,” she offered. She paused a moment to gauge his reaction; he didn’t recoil. “That is, if you think it can help, right Mom?”

“Of course. Definitely, We can do that,” Leta agreed, quite surprised herself.

“Buy the gifts, wrap them, and then you can pick them up from Mom’s on Christmas Eve,” Vivian continued. “We can take care of all of it.”

END OF PART ONE.

African Violets

Although Leta always liked cherry blossoms and roses for their fragrance, the African violet was her favorite flower. The cherry blossoms were seasonal, so one couldn’t get them in a bouquet. And, of course, nearly everyone liked roses, which did work well in a bouquet and were available any time of year. But the African violet was a different story.

The African violet was a relatively new houseplant choice in 1922. Her soon-to-be second husband Albert Mohr, noting that she liked to keep a few houseplants, gave her one for her birthday. She was still married to Ralph at the time, but separated. Albert gave her a second plant for their first Christmas as a married couple that same year. While she was taken by the flowering plant, she never much considered it special until after Albert’s murder in 1927. From that time forward, she always kept two to four plants, even after she retired to the senior residence in 1972.

The flowering plant, originating in the cloud forests of Tanzania in Africa, was a friendly, easygoing houseplant of the genus saintpaulia. In fact, that’s what she always called them, her “resident saintpaulia,” as if the great Apostle was always present to guide her.

Over the years, she kept several notes on its care, acquired through experience, experimentation and conversation. It didn’t require direct sunlight, but good light. The best way to water the plant was from below—that is, put water in the saucer and never directly on the leaves. The water needed to be room temperature. This is owing to its original climate with its lukewarm rains and steady mild temperature.

The hard part was that the flower required its own soil and fertilizer. Regular houseplant soil and fertilizer were too chlorinated and salty for this hearty plant. While the plant may live, it wouldn’t thrive or bloom. And the African violet isn’t very pretty when not blooming. Her African violets bloomed a lot.

Once a year, she repotted her plants. At this time, she also propagated at least one, occasionally counting how many generations she had maintained over the years.

She also developed several forms of care for her precious flowering plant. To kill bugs, for example, one could squirt them with Black Flag®, or better yet, mix one teaspoon of Ammonia with two quarts of water. NNOR Garden Spray also worked if it was diluted properly—one-half teaspoon into one quart of water 10° warmer than room temperature. She only used this method when the insects were persistent. It required a regiment: spray with force all parts of the plant and then wet the soil thoroughly. Spray every ten days for two or three times. Then once a month when cleaned. The spray mixture always needed to be fresh, or it would damage the leaves. To get them to bloom, she mixed one teaspoon of Epsom salts in one quart of water.

While botanists developed various flower colors over the years, she always preferred the purple colored ones.  “They are called ‘violet’ after all,” she noted.

Seven husbands - well...

Leta's niece June, my sister Michelle's great-grandmother-in-law, believed that Leta was married eleven times. My own grandfather, Leta’s son-in-law, had told me seven. As he remembered several when he set me on my quest to research her life and create this work, I used his number as a guide. Plus I suppose, even to me, eleven seemed a bit excessive and, well, embarrassing. She was my beloved great-grandmother, after all, and religious, as am I. It was enough to know that she was married seven times and dated other men.

Over the course of the past few months, I have been piecing together her life and marriage time-line from a variety of sources, and every time I visit the Oakland Family History Center, a county courthouse or cemetery, I learn more detail.

As a writer, I know that when it comes to fascinating lives, I couldn’t make up anything equal to what actually happened, nor do I want to—until, well, the historic sources or leads dry up. Right now I am glad that I haven’t given up and been proved right again.

Most recently, after a somewhat long, fruitless research period at the Family History Center, I started to look for the elusive seventh husband: The chicken farmer with 12 children Leta married for one week. The only point of reference I had was that my grandparents were married at the time, so this occurred after 1936. Although I know that her fourth husband Bob Fields died in 1946, I do not yet know when or how her marriage to husband number three Ora Freeman (from 1927) concluded, nor when she married Mr. Fields. These puzzle pieces are still part of my research, and I was stuck.

So I tried a new tactic. As women generally change their surnames with marriage, I typed into the search engine for Ohio Marriages, “Leta Freeman.” (Actually, I was working my way through her known last names.)

Whoa! I didn’t find out what I was looking for specifically, but I did find husband number seven – or rather, husband number four.

On March 2, 1929, Leta Freeman married Leech F. Hoose of New London, Ohio in Wood County, Ohio. The groom, age 32, listed his marital status as widowed, and the bride, age 35, listed her status as divorced.

Mr. Leech IS NOT the aforementioned chicken farmer. He IS a new discovery, and husband number eight, the fourth man she married. Right now this bumps Bob Fields to five, Claud Bassett to six, chicken farmer with 12 kids to seven and Richard Eckman to eight (I’m guessing that chicken farmer most likely comes between Fields and Bassett or now, Leech and Fields.)

For now this is all I know, but having been rejuvenated by this discovery, I am eager to pursue more (as well as reconfigure a bit the structure of the novel already in process). Between this marriage in 1929 and the death of Robert Fields (to whom she was married during World War II) in 1946, Leta’s life could include, well, almost anything!

See, I couldn’t have made this up.

Leta's home remedies

It seems to me that Leta was a practical and pragmatic person. She was not a pack rat. Of the few things she left after she passed on, I received her Bible, which she must have received in the late 1940s. It includes the information of her marriage to Claud Bassett, husband number five (in 1948). It also includes a list of birth dates of her family members down to her great-granddaughter Jennifer (born in 1965 or after; there’s no date on that one).

In addition, she included a few notes, written on scattered pages. These notes include some home remedies that someone must have shared with her. Perhaps having nothing else to write on, she found a little spot to record such things as a wart remedy: “rub bacon rind on wart; throw it over left shoulder. Wart will disappear.” I believe the note indicates that after rubbing the bacon on the wart, the bacon should be thrown over the left shoulder. (I guess one did this outside or immediately after picked up the used bacon to dispose of. I can’t quite imagine that she left bacon lying on the kitchen floor.)

Another note is actually a recipe for liniment, which, according to her directions, could be used for sprains or rheumatism:

“1/2 pint of turpentine

1/2 pint vinegar

2 crushed egg shells

Beat with an egg beater until frothy.

Bottle.

Rub in well.

Put on hot wet rags. Wrap in dry towel.”

This is actually written under a note separated by a line that says: “Hanson’s Disease is Leprosy.” I am telling myself that she wrote this note while in a Bible study about the Savior and his Apostles healing lepers. I really haven’t figured that one out yet.

She has two notes on burns:

“1.       In case you have burnt the tip of your finger, tightly grip your ear lobe.

 2.       Cut a piece of onion and keep it over the burnt area. Very effective. Provides instant relief.” (But what about the smell?)

Perhaps she had dandruff, for she includes a remedy for that: “Combine two tablespoons of vinegar and six tablespoons of hot water. Apply with cotton ball to the scalp. Keep this overnight and wash off your hair next morning.”

She also writes that the best way to clean a comb is ammonia water.

Beautiful Inside and Out, Part 2

"What changed?" I asked her.

“Honey, believe it or not, I have no idea,” she said with a shake of her head and shrug of her shoulders.

On this particularly sunny spring afternoon, my great-grandmother and I were walking in the garden of the assisted living residence where she lived. I was on break from college and caught her in a rueful mood - or she was trying to teach me a lesson. I wasn't sure which.

This started with a simple statement: “I used to be pretty. Then one morning I woke up, and I was ugly.” She believed her sister-in-law, a conservative Christian, foretold it, and the same for her brother Aaron, who was a drinker and gambler. Aaron, she had just noted, stopped his ugly behavior, and I wondered why.

 “He never said,” she answered, “and well, we never asked. Neither Florence nor I. It happened so gradually, I think, that we almost didn’t notice. One evening my husband and I were visiting, and I was feeling pretty thirsty. Florence wouldn’t allow any alcohol in the house, so I suggested we go the Flat Iron bar for a beer, and Aaron said he’d rather just have cake and coffee and stay home. And that was that."

She faltered for a moment, and seemed to be drawing back to herself and her own life. In that moment, she seemed not only frail, but also regretful.

"He never turned ugly," she concluded.

A blink later she grabbed my arm and proceeded with renewed vigor, returning to the energy I remember her having before she moved to the senior residence.

"Now my daughter your grandmother was beautiful,” she declared, “both on the outside and inside. She could draw all the eyes in a room to her, and more than that. She had humility. She never used her beauty or her charm for a selfish reason. And she was stately. "

Of course, like any grandchild, I believed my grandmother came directly from heaven, fashioned out of the most blessed stuff that God had available. While my own memories of her warmed my soul, my great-grandmother continued.

"Your mom—she’s beautiful, too. You know that, right?"

"Of course, Grandma," I said. "Every child thinks his mother is the most beautiful woman in the world."

"That's not what I mean," she snapped, "and you know it. You know things. Your mom is special. And do you know why?”

Without waiting for me to reply, she continued. "Because for both your mother and grandmother, their beauty goes all the way through. It’s not held in their faces or their bodies, but in their souls.  And even if other people don't fully realize it, they sense it."

By this time, we returned to her room, and I helped her sit in her chair before handing her a glass of water.

"Thank you," she acknowledged. "You're a good boy."

I rolled my eyes.

"Don't mock me!" she ordered, and I stepped back. Then she relaxed.

She looked tired, so I indicated that this might be a good time for me to depart. She nodded, and turned her head toward her own thoughts and memories. These moods sometimes concerned me. Each time they happened I felt as though she was moving closer to another realm, leaving this place where we were together a little more each time.

"Would you like me to turn the television on?" I asked.

"No, thank you."

I waited a moment for her to acknowledge me, but she never stirred. Was her mind full or simply empty, I wondered. Either way it seemed like melancholy, and I felt badly for instigating it.

"I guess I'll be leaving then," I said.

I moved slowly. First, I gave her a moment to respond; she didn't. Then I walked over to her and gave her the customary kiss on the cheek; more out of habit than willful participation, she turned her head to offer the cheek to me. I waited there a moment and then patted her hand.

"See you the next time," I said.

I took a deep breath and headed for the door; I was nearly gone when she spoke.

"When you get home, take a good look at your mother’s face. A real good look," she instructed. "Better yet, just give her a big hug. Watch her face light up. I tell you, she’s a Helen of Troy, blessed by God. And I want you to always remember that."